


Incantare

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Opscuritas [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Origin Story, Ambiguity, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Female Character, Codependency, Dark, Explicit Language, F/M, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, to specify - the rape tag is a precaution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: Sometimes, thingsareas they appear, even when they're hidden behind honeyed words and handsome smiles.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Opscuritas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860646
Comments: 196
Kudos: 198
Collections: Bad Peeps in Love





	1. Allure

_the sweetest coating_   
_won’t matter_   
_if there’s poison_   
_inside_

Chris McGeown, from “Innermost”

* * *

Lena Grey is sixteen years old when she meets Jack Napier. 

Well, perhaps this is a generous way of putting it: calling it a meeting as if it’s preordained and inevitable rather than an unlucky happenstance. 

She’s in her sophomore English Lit class, the room frigid and damp with light bleeding through the slated windows; the bitter fall wind whistles through poorly sealed frames. Ms. Batson, a lively woman who speaks loudly and with verve, stands at the chalkboard writing out plot points from _The Portrait of a Lady,_ and Lena’s classmates sit in varying stages of alertness: the ones taking diligent notes sit at the front; the ones who don't care but have friends sit in the back, chatting in low tones and barely holding in their giggles at some ill-conceived joke; and then there are the kids watching the clock, waiting for the little hand to drag up to 10 AM. Lena isn't paying attention to any of them; she often doesn’t. Her hand, tacky with smudged ink, pulls the edges of the paper from her notebook's spine; little accidental fractures turning into gouges with each swooping curve. 

Why be in class when she can be somewhere else? 

Tall pines and great oak trees hug the spine of a long, winding river. The dark water is still and clear as glass, reflecting upward a blurred mirror world. The air smells clean, thick with green and life and heavy with coming rain. Wet mud spreads between her bare toes. The water ripples out, slow and lazy when the tip of her finger dances across the surface, cool and inviting. 

She’s never been here before, but she saw it in a photograph once. It feels real, and that’s what matters. Just as real if she had waded into a quiet river, felt its streams envelop her legs, gently glide between them. If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear a robin singing from a nearby tree. 

Everyone looks up to examine the new arrival when he walks in—everyone except for Lena. She doesn't hear the heavy wooden door drag open and Ms. Batson stop mid-sentence, or when the low voices emanating from the back of the classroom quieten. It’s early in the term, not an unusual time for transfers in her neighbourhood—kids come and go often—but it’s still an event worthy of a quick moment of attention. The first opportunity to classify the new kid. Is he the type they will invite to sit with them at lunch, include in their inside jokes and catch him up to speed on which teachers will give extensions without much fuss and which lunch foods to avoid? Or is he the kind of person who can be sized up with a glance and given a wide berth, acting on gut instinct after catching a particular look in his eye and opting to delegate him into the _Not My People_ category?

It turns out Jack Napier is neither—not at first. 

His face is blank, expressionless; his eyes focus ahead but look through all of them. He says nothing when Ms. Batson asks him to introduce himself, only giving a small nod by way of greeting, and Lena misses the prompts from her peers, the tight-lipped smiles and sideways glances. She’s using one of her favourite fountain pens to fill in the waves she drew along the border of her notebook with interlocking circles, and she doesn't realize he’s taken the empty seat to her left until he throws his bag to the floor, not caring how subtly it lands. Lena jumps, the vision gone as quick as she conjured it, and gives a small noise of surprise. She looks up long enough to catch sight of him smirking, his back bowed as he slouches in the chair, his legs too long for the small desk and leaving him at risk of slipping out completely like some long snake. 

She realizes she hasn't seen him before, that she's missed his name, and now that Lena’s looking, she can't get herself to stop. His hair is wavy and dark blond, like gold under shadow, long enough to wrap around the shell of his ears lazily but not quite brush the back of his neck. His nose slants downwards, his jaw sharp and angular. Lena knows it’s rude, but she finds herself staring at his profile, taking in the small dusting of freckles that span the entirety of his cheekbones, just visible below his eyes, and she imagines what light would be best to take his photograph. 

This is invariably the first dive her mind takes—how to properly set her camera and what angle to take, how to capture the life she sees in front of her onto film. It isn't so much the people themselves that she sees but the things they tell her, what she can pick out from the smallest details and the way light hits her subject, searching to capture that elusive _punctum_. Her imagination picks up the rest, developing entire lives for people she hasn't asked even one question aloud. 

This habit of inattention usually leads her to miss some of the more important details. Like how the blond boy is speaking to her, leaning in so close (or she leaned too far in, she wouldn't have been able to tell which) that she pulls back with a jolt, her cheeks getting hot as he stares at her, his gaze unwavering. The small quirk on one side of his mouth is the only sign that he feels anything at all. 

"Pencil?"

Lena’s face burns, her ears slow to catch up with the world coming into focus. "What?"

 _That sounded smart,_ she thinks, wincing at how she says it a little too loud, earning titters from the girls behind her as Ms. Batson waves her hands in elaborate motions Lena’s too distracted to interpret.

"Pencil," he repeats, looking from her hand to her face. His voice is deep, unexpectedly so, a disinterested baritone that feels warm against her skin. The warmth flushes all the way to her chest when she looks at his eyes, the dark ochre that seems to miss nothing, steady and intense. 

"Oh, yeah—yeah,” she says in a rush. “Here." 

She hands him the fountain pen in her hand and is surprised that the flush travels all the way down to her toes when the calloused pads of his fingers brush her thumb, like her nerve endings are pinching awake after having fallen asleep, and she remembers too late that she needs her pen to complete the design she worked on all class. She’s close to asking him for it back and offering him what he'd originally asked for, a pencil, but the girls behind her focus their attention on the new boy, making note of how loose and large his pockmarked shirt is, the rattiness of his jeans and the dirt on his shoes. Lena thinks it best to say nothing, biting her tongue and staring at the incomplete design with a furrowed brow. 

She tries to move on, start another on the opposite side, but she can't drag her attention away from the first or the boy across from her, how he smells faintly of cigarette smoke and sweat, how he doesn't use her pen for writing but for twisting it over his fingers instead in quick, practiced movements. He looks at her once out of the corner of his eye, lips pressing together to form a tight line. 

_Why ask for my pen if you're not going to use it?_ she thinks, but the question moves to the back of her mind as the vision of the river returns and she lets it wander, staring down at her notebook until her sight blurs. She’s back in the water, the quiet stream climbing higher until it laps against her knees, the mud covering her feet and beckoning her deeper into the riverbed. The current picks up; the still surface turns turbulent. She hears a sound, a muffled voice. The blond boy is there, watching with faint curiosity, his head tilted with detached interest. She wonders if he knows how to swim, if he likes the feeling of the water as much as she does, if he knows how to push against the current before it rolls him under. 

In the time it takes Lena to blink, the bell rings and her classmates spring from their seats, eager to pack their things and rush out the door. She’s one of the last to get up, dodging swinging purses and backpacks and wayward elbows, and she looks for the blond boy, rehearsing in her head what she needs to say to get her pen back so she won't sound foolish again. But before she can ask, he’s gone like he had never been there at all, the faint smell of smoke the only thing left behind, and she wonders if he'd been a figment of her daydream after all. 

"Lena!" a voice calls, dragging her attention from the empty seat to the doorway. "You're spacing out again, c'mon." 

It's Rose, and Lena can't help but smile, the boy and his hair and his voice forgotten. Collecting her things and waving goodbye to Ms. Batson, they walk down the busy hall together to calculus, the class Lena enjoys the least and where Rose excels, avoiding the bombastic and over-excited rowdiness of the football players huddling around the corner, the groups of girls blocking the way but too engrossed in one another to notice, and the long lines of students waiting to file into their classrooms.

Rose drops her head down to Lena's ear to speak over the racket that is every five minute period between classes, "I swear, one of these days I'm not gonna be there to herd you like a cat." 

She's taller than Lena by three inches (they measured last summer to settle a bet), her locs are black and wiry with long strands of silver and gold braided in, a new style she's been sporting since the start of the fall semester over a month ago. Lena always feels that Rose is better put together than she manages to be; she never looks tired, her clothes match and fit her thin frame, and her nails are a new colour every week and somehow remain perfect until she strips it away with acetone to start again. She's also her best friend, has been since junior high, and Lena can't imagine her life without her.

She leans into Rose, rolling her eyes. "Oh, what would I do without you?" Lena drawls in a bad Southern accent, earning a laugh and a gentle elbow to the ribs. 

"Become a permanent fixture somewhere, probably." Rose smiles despite the tone of admonishment. “What were you staring after, anyway? You looked like you were stuck in a dream or somethin’—” 

"Lookin' good, Rosie," one boy, Lena thinks his name is Nick, interrupts as he shouts across the hall. His friends jeer and look her up and down, passing over Lena with a few pointed glances and mumbled comments to one another. 

She recognizes them from around school but doesn't remember their names, just that they are loud and often rude. This has happened before, boys focusing on Rose and her height and big eyes and severe cheekbones—the track star, _the tease_. Rose is beautiful and Lena's favourite subject to photograph, but Rose taught her that not every expression of interest is sincere. It still confuses her, why someone would be duplicitous when it's easier to be honest, but she trusts Rose. She knows how to read people better than Lena does. 

"C'mon, Riley is having a Halloween party next Friday, you should come. You can even bring Miss Eyebrows with you." 

The boys burst out laughing at that, referring to Lena's thicker brows, something she refuses to pluck into a thin line. Mostly because it's too much trouble but also because it hurts beyond basic maintenance to take a pair of tweezers and rip out her own hair for hours at a time. It's a conscious effort not to touch or hide them behind her hair. 

"It's okay," she says, sensing Rose's building anger. "It doesn't matter, let's just go to class."

Lena wants to pretend the boys said nothing; she doesn't want to waste her energy on them even as her chest tightens, but Rose stops and plants her feet. Anyone who knows her like Lena does would see that she's furious, but the boys see someone who's tall and pretty with her hands on her hips, a _firecracker_ giving them the reaction they want. Rose parties often and is friends with many of the athletes, but she refuses to date, and it seems to be a running competition to see who could get her to crack first. Rose knows this, but she still rises to the challenge. She maintains her smile but it grows cold, and she stares them down like they're six years younger and have the stunted intelligence to match. 

"If I had a nickel for every time someone cared what you thought, Eric," she smiles widely, ogling him like he had her and curling her lip in disgust, "then I might have _just_ enough for bus fare to the mall." 

Eric's, _not_ Nick's, grin falters and the boys behind him become a chorus of _oohs_ , and Lena snorts. Rose smirks now, and others passing along stop to stare at Eric and he goes red, struggling to find a comeback. 

“Real smooth, bud,” one boy says, grinning widely and elbowing Eric’s arm as the rest of the group descends into raucous laughter. 

Rose scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Losers.” 

Lena agrees, but she doesn't want to linger. She hooks her arm through Rose’s and drags her attention away from the subject of her wrath as the second bell rings. 

“You didn’t have to talk to them,” Lena says, moving past the tight rows of desks to get to their usual seats. She's glad none of the boys from the hall are in the class with them, but Lena still feels tense, embarrassed. She unconsciously runs one finger over her brow now that they aren't around to see, wondering if they _are_ too thick, and lets her hair fall around her face. "It's okay, seriously. They're not very original." 

The look in Rose's eyes says _that's not the point,_ and she reclines in her chair, stretching her long legs. “Dumbasses like them don’t get to mouth off without someone telling ‘em to shove it where the sun don’t shine.” Rose clicks her tongue against her teeth and leans over to push Lena’s hair behind her ear, her long nails gently brushing against Lena’s scalp and making her skin tingle in a different way than the boy’s had when he touched her fingers. “C’mon, honey—you look emo when you hide behind your hair like that.” 

Lena waves her hand away, indignant. “I’m not _emo,_ I just like my hair like that.” She brushes it over her shoulder and it spills down her back; even if she doesn't like how it makes her neck feel bare, it keeps Rose from fussing and rearranging it during class. “And… Thanks, by the way.” 

Rose grins widely, showing the small gap between her two front teeth. “I got you, girl.” She jerks her chin and winks like she's some smooth guy from a rom-com and they both break into giggles.

“Alright, class,” their calculus teacher, Mr. Farhid, drones from the front of the classroom, smothering the high energy with a damp blanket. He's a monotone man, quiet except for when he starts getting into the heavier theories and finds a new life that will fade again when the bell sounds, the pits of his shirts perpetually stained with sweat. Lena already feels like falling asleep. “We’re continuing today with the basics of implicit differentiation—”

Lena doesn't understand most of what Mr. Farhid says. Most of the concepts take her longer to remember, nevermind understand, and she isn't sure why she let Rose talk her into taking it as an elective last spring. There isn't time to get lost in her head here. She copies every equation and definition he writes on the board, transcribing the lecture verbatim as best she can, but it soon becomes another language entirely. 

“You didn’t answer my question before,” Rose whispers. 

“Huh?” she replies half-heartedly, her head floundering in mathematical signs that might as well be hieroglyphs for all the sense they make. 

“Why're you so zoned out before? Stuff with your dad again?”

Lena sighs. She knows Rose will help her study later, but she can't help but feel frustrated that Rose can give it half the attention she does and still pass with straight A’s while Lena struggles to keep her average at a C-plus. Rose can manage to both take detailed notes _and_ talk, and Lena rests her chin on her hand, thickening the lines of the equations until they bleed together.

“No—no, things are fine with him.” Lena looks away and hopes she sounds convincing. “Just a new guy that was in class earlier.” She resists the notion that she dreamt him up and remembers how he took her pen, the heavy look in his eyes, his radiating disinterest and the afterimage his profile left in her mind. 

_“Ooh!”_ Rose shakes her shoulders suggestively, wriggling an eyebrow. Lena’s face feels hot like it did when the boy first looked at her. 

“Shut up, it’s not like that—”

“Miss Grey and Miss Williams,” Mr. Farhid says, staring at them both from over the rim of his circular glasses. Lena feels like crawling in a hole and disappearing when the whole class turns to stare with him. “Less chatting, more listening.” 

They both nod and apologize, and Rose goes back to making neat notes with clean lines while Lena gives up, her attention too unfocused to do more than doodle idly on the edge of the page. The windowless room grows warm and the air heavy with sweat and chalk as he clears the board to start a new, never-ending list of numbers that hurts Lena's head just to look at. It's like the dust coats her lungs as she breathes it in, her sweater too stifling as the minutes pass, sweat building on her neck under her thick hair and dripping down to the small of her back. She wants to be outside with her camera, working on the assignments that mean something and she'll actually _use_ in her life when school finishes. Who needs calculus apart from doctors and math geniuses? Why can't they teach her how to do her taxes or how budgeting is supposed to work? 

_Maybe it's not too late to drop the class,_ she thinks. Rose might try to talk her out of it, but she doesn't know how she'll manage another three months of this, nevermind trying to pass any kind of exam without tanking her GPA. She doesn't look up, too immersed in the angry scribbles she turns into an abstract mess of clouds until a crumpled up piece of paper lands by her hand. She opens it a little at a time under her desk, and she immediately recognizes Rose's handwriting. 

**_Tell me on the way home._ **

Lena sneaks a glance Rose's way, nodding slightly before writing a hurried reply.

**_Mill on 5th. Y/N?_ **

She knows what the response will be, but she smiles at how quick Rose is to give it, and how she bolds the letters in coloured pen and surrounds it with half a dozen little hearts.

**_YES!_ **

She feels lighter for knowing that she has something to look forward to, and her classes skip by as if they are eager for the day to be done, too. She doesn't see the blond boy again, and he fades until she forgets about her pen, forgets the way her fingers tingled pleasantly when they touched his. Rose doesn't remember to ask either when they sit together for lunch, laughing loudly when Eric sees them from across the cafeteria and glares. Perhaps it's the sugar high from Mrs. Williams’ oatmeal cookies that she sent with Rose as dessert or the childlike excitement at the prospect of adventure, but it doesn't matter, she feels more energetic than she has in days. 

Lena has a sense of eternal optimism, a belief that every encounter, every event is an important milestone that will build to a better ending than how her life began. She holds onto that, holds it close, holds it like it will ward off pain through the power of belief alone. Lena doesn't want to remember that her story isn't the only one unfolding, that there are other players with aims different from her own, and that they are rarely kind. 

The world grows vivid wherever she looks, the hues brighter and the edges soft, lingering on the familiar and the novel, but there is still so much she misses, important details rendered invisible. Like how the blond boy sits in the far corner of the cafeteria, tapping the end of an unlit cigarette against the stained tabletop as he evaluates his schoolmates one by one, the boredom threatening to surge in his lungs and burst out of his hands as it consumes him from the inside out, his skin itching in a way that makes him want to tear at it. He might not know their names, but he's good with faces. Lena may have forgotten the blond boy from English class for the moment, but Jack Napier didn't forget her. So, he watches. Watches her joke with her friend and cover her mouth as she laughs. Watches her smile and absently braid her black hair. Watches as she seems to float away in her own little world. 

He gently bites the filter of his cigarette between his teeth and lights it, breathing deep until the smoke fills his lungs, exhaling out the window cracked open behind him. The ashes pirouette down in a spritely dance, and he relishes the heat, how he feels something new flicker in his stomach, how he burns. 

He might not be bored for much longer. 

* * *

"Why'd you have to pick such a cold day to do this again?" Rose asks, bunching her bright pink puffer jacket closer to her neck to keep out the October wind. 

They walk down the large front staircase of the school, taking two steps at a time while avoiding the clusters of smokers and wannabe gangsters waiting for the bus and the student council advertising some Halloween bake sale with a hand-painted banner. Rose is better at weaving through the crowds than Lena, and she struggles not to fall behind Rose's long stride.

"Sorry," she buttons up her oversized jean jacket, but the denim does little to keep her warm, "It'll be better when we find a way inside." 

Rose stops and whips around, and Lena is too slow and nearly makes them both tumble down the stairs before she catches herself. Rose doesn't seem to care, she's waving her finger in the way Lena has seen Mrs. Williams do at least a hundred times. "Oh, _hell_ no, you're not making me go in there for anything. I thought you just wanted to get some close-ups of the outside?" 

"I mean—I wanted to do both,” she starts, the words tumbling out when Rose sighs. “C'mon, it won't be that bad—" 

"No, Lena—that place is an absolute trash pile and you wanna go diggin' around like you _wanna_ get crushed by some falling beam? Jumped by some homeless junkie? No _thank you,_ ma'am, I prefer my bones where they're supposed to be and _not_ getting stabbed. I prefer you that way, too." 

Lena doesn't want to be discouraged so easily, but her face falls. Rose is stubborn, and Lena often has a hard time changing her mind about anything. Most of her excitement centres around finding a way inside the mill, seeing the massive machinery herself, finding that _perfect_ shot, something her peers in her photography class wouldn't think of on their own. Rose clicks her tongue. 

"Don't get like that," she says, squeezing Lena's arm briefly before throwing an arm around her, the smell of Rose's vanilla perfume filling her nose. Lena rests her head against Rose's shoulder, playing along despite the disappointment. She tries to think of an argument that will somehow change her mind. "We can still have a good time without getting crushed, alright? So let's—what the hell?" 

Lena's gaze follows the direction Rose points to with her chin. She doesn't know what she's meant to look for, all she sees are other teens, a few teachers on bus duty, and a janitor.

"What?" 

Rose makes a sound in the back of her throat that's stuck between a scoff and a sigh. " _There_ ," she says, directing Lena's head toward the long railing where a small group of goth kids have gathered to chain-smoke. "The weirdo staring at us." 

Lena finally sees who she means. It's the boy from her English class. He sits on the railing, slouched with his elbows on his knees and a cigarette between his lips. He _is_ looking at them, and he meets Lena’s eyes for a long second before he glances away, reaching up to pinch the filter and take a long drag, the smoke pouring out his nose as he exhales. Her cheeks are inexplicably hot again, and she remembers that he still has her pen. 

"Oh, he's not weird,” Lena forces out, clearing her throat. “He's new—he was in my class this morning." 

"Yeah, he was in American History with me in fifth period. He's _weird._ " 

She doesn't miss the contempt in Rose’s voice. Something cinches tight in her stomach. "You don't even know him." She wishes she sounded more convincing, that she didn't sound so small. 

"Some people you don't wanna get to know any better than having a good enough look at their face so you can avoid 'em," she says with finality, steering Lena away and down the rest of the stairs. 

"Rose, that's mean." She wants to tell her that he’s borrowed her pen and she thinks it would be kind to say hello, she remembers too well what it's like moving to a new school without knowing anyone, but Rose doesn't leave any room for arguing. 

"Not mean if it's true," she sings, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. 

"Hey—" 

She hurries Lena along when she looks back to find the blond boy, but he's gone, and Rose is never one to linger. “You’re too nice for your own good.” 

She lets Rose lead her down the sidewalk, still damp from the morning’s rain. The residual oil in the gutters has an electric glow as they refract the street lights like small mirrors, all green and red and grey sky. The air is thick and heavy despite the wind, and Lena shivers in a cold sweat. It isn't long before she’s distracted again, her regrets about not knowing the blond boy's name and Rose’s comments now muted as she thinks about the steel mill and the hole in the fence they’ll have to get through without ruining their clothes. Rose won't forgive her if her jacket gets torn. 

They've been neighbours for five years, with Rose living a little further up the street in a townhouse with her mom and four brothers while Lena shared a two-bedroom apartment with her dad that's seen better days. She doesn't think it's a bad neighbourhood—the other tenants in her building leave her alone and smile when she does, and most people keep to themselves. It isn't the worst borough to live in, not like the Narrows, but that doesn't stop Rose from touting her can of pepper spray and attempting to teach Lena how to break someone’s nose. 

“We’ll be fine, you don’t need to be paranoid,” Lena says, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering while Rose puts the can in the outside pouch of her backpack.

“You like pushing our luck too much,” Rose rejoins. 

She laughs, eyes trained forward as they near the mill. It takes a moment before Lena realizes Rose is no longer beside her. She turns to find that Rose has her back to her, facing the way they came. "Are you okay?" Lena asks, confused, worried. She thinks she might have done something wrong, upset her somehow. She knows Rose prefers taking the bus home, that she's prone to worrying, but she's more vigilant than usual, and she feels guilty for asking her to come along. Her throat feels tight, and she holds the strap of her backpack harder, her knuckles going white. "Rose?" 

She stands still for a moment longer before dragging her attention back to Lena and smiling half-heartedly. “It's… Just had a weird feeling. I don’t know—it’s fine. Let’s get that 'perfect shot' of yours so we can watch a movie.” She jogs to catch up with Lena, linking their arms together, and Lena takes a deep breath in relief. “Mom said she might go to Blockbuster tonight.” 

The worry Lena felt a moment ago disappears. She loves spending time with the Williams, their affectionate bickering and not-so-subtle inquisitiveness. It felt less lonely for being there, and she likes that Rose always invites her without thinking, like she belongs. “Can we watch _Clueless_?” 

Rose doubles-over in relief, clutching her heart. “Oh my _God,_ I thought you were gonna ask for _Ferris Beuller_ or something dumb with Drew Barrymore.”

She taps her hip against Rose’s, laughing through her nose. “And subject you to any other movie chronicling the myriad of tragedies that comes with being a white girl in middle-class suburbia?” 

Rose groans. “Don’t even get me _started._ Cinematic tragedy, honestly.” 

They burst into giggles when their eyes met, unabashed and loud as they ignore the people passing by and anyone and everyone who might stop to stare.

*

On the corner of Fifth Avenue East and Duval Street, past the railyard and on the perimeter of the Industrial Park with its spewing waste clouding the atmosphere, is an old steel mill. It belonged to the Sionis family once, back before they moved into cosmetics, and its towering brick chimneys and hulking slabs of concrete and metal were once a symbol of Gotham’s status as a powerhouse of industry. It’s been abandoned for fifteen years, but, like many things on the East End, it’s an afterthought as Gotham’s economy sinks further into the harbour and the crime rate seems eager to outdo itself every year in how high it can climb. There aren’t any residential buildings around for three blocks, and it’s because of its relative isolation that the city hasn’t torn it down, allowing it to rot like an old carcass collapsing in on itself, its bones brittle and its guts hollowed. The seven-foot-high fence topped with barbed wire is another deterrent the city relies upon to save itself the pains of spending money on the already rotting borough, nevermind that three kids died tagging its walls within a decade and it’s a common meeting point for gangs and a shelter for the homeless. 

Lena and Rose pass by it every day on their way home if they don't take the bus, and it’s captured Lena’s attention for as long as she can remember. It’s the running joke in the neighbourhood that it’s haunted; ghost stories are traded like party favours and she loves listening to each, every subsequent addition sounding more plausible than the last. Rose doesn't like the look of the place, and she's asked Lena more than once why she likes it so much. Lena told her it's based on a feeling, the memories left behind, the echoes that bleed into the foundations. She wants to encapsulate it onto film, catch some flicker of the life that once was so it feels like she had really been there when it first sparked, even if she’s just staring at a photo in her hand. 

She can see it for herself now through the chain-link fence, all its promise and mystery. Her skin feels like it’s vibrating, her mind whirring through where to start first, what angle to take—she just needs to get her camera ready. 

“What’s he looking for anyway?” Rose asks, shifting on her feet and rubbing her arms to stay warm. 

“ _New perspectives,_ he said.” Carefully, she switches her 70mm lens for her 35mm, making sure the glass is clean as she lines up the threads before twisting it in place. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s supposed to be open to interpretation—practicing the new techniques he talked about last week and stuff like that.” 

“Like what?” Rose sounds impatient, and Lena looks up to see her shivering, her brown hands turning ashen as she wraps her coat around her waist tightly. Lena tries to move faster without dropping something.

“Contrast and framing. You know—finding things in the environment that act as a frame for the shot.” 

She has her lens, she has her tripod, her leather-bound journal is there for her to take notes, but where’s the film? She digs deeper into her bag, she _knows_ she has some. She can clearly remember putting it in one of the inside pockets. _But which one is it?_

“Sounds like nonsense to me. Can’t you just take a picture of a door?” 

Lena smiles and gives her a significant look from under her raised brow. “ _No,_ it can’t just be of _any_ door, it has to speak to the viewer and—” 

She cuts herself off, her mouth dropping in horror. The pockets in her bag are empty—they don't have the film. How could she be so forgetful? So _stupid_? She drags her fingers through her hair, looking down the street and trying to think through the chaotic flurry roaring in her ears. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Rose asks, stepping around Lena to drop down in front of her. She places her hands on Lena’s cheeks. “Don’t look like that, tell me what’s wrong.” 

It takes several seconds to find her voice, to swallow the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. “I’m _such_ an idiot.” 

How could she forget? Why didn’t she _think_ about these things instead of just running off without checking? 

“What?” Rose’s hands are cold, they help Lena’s mind sharpen again, and they slide from her cheeks to her shoulders. “No you’re not. What’s—”

“I don’t have any film at home and Mr. Nakamura said I could use some from the supply cupboard,” she blurts out, her chest constricting. What she doesn’t tell Rose is that she can’t afford any of her own, her dad hasn’t given her any money in weeks, and the little she does have from working for the school paper and what her thea gave her for her birthday is meant for groceries. Mr. Nakamura is kind enough to let her use his own personal stores; it’s the only reason she's able to stay in the class. Embarrassment pinches her cheeks between two invisible nails, sharp and piercing. “I forgot to grab it earlier. I’ll have to run and get some.” 

Rose sits back on her heels, breathing out in relief. She thought this was something more serious, but Lena’s overreacting again, and her expression smooths. “That’s not the end of the world. I’ll come with.” She stands, brushing nonexistent dirt from her Levi’s before holding out her hand. Lena takes it, but she can’t meet her eyes. 

“No, no—it’s alright. You go to your house and get snacks or something and I’ll meet you there.” Rose gives her a look, one eyebrow raised and her arms crossed over her chest. Lena pretends she doesn’t see it, wrapping her equipment in her old t-shirts and placing them in her bag. “If I run, we can still get some good shots before it gets too dark. I’ll be quick, promise.”

Rose huffs and waves her on, confirming that they’ll meet at her house, and Lena sprints. It was a ten-minute walk to the mill, so she could make it to school in five if she doesn’t stop for breaks. She doesn’t have the stamina or the speed Rose does, but her energy is good in short bursts. She’ll be winded by the time she got to Rose’s house, but she can live with that—this wouldn’t have happened if she’d been thinking. 

She’s impressed with herself that it’s not until the seventh block that her legs cramp, that her lungs protest and burn, and she barely looks both ways before running out into the street when the crosswalk hand flashes red. She needs to be fast if she wants this to happen today—otherwise she has to wait four days until the weekend, and she'll need to find time to develop the film on top of that. No, better that it happens today. 

Her chest heaves by the time she gets to the school, her shoes heavy like they’re caked in cement, but she makes herself jog up the front staircase, now deserted. They haven’t locked the doors yet, and she makes herself pick up the pace, weaving her way through the empty halls and its eerie dim lights and long echoes reverberating the sound of her sneakers hitting the linoleum, until she comes to a halt in front of the stairs leading to the basement. The photo lab is down there; it’s the best place to have a darkroom and to keep the film and equipment from getting too hot like it would in other parts of the school. She catches her breath and adjusts her heavy bag before descending, holding onto the railing to steady her shaking legs. 

It’s dark as she gets close to the bottom, the lights off and the door shut. She’s worried that Mr. Nakamura’s left and locked everything up behind him—she saw a group gathered for a school club and a janitor, but she doesn’t think anyone would be able to help if she asked. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to stop herself from crying if it’s locked. She prays it isn’t. 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forces a big breath of air to fill her chest, holding it for a long moment before releasing it. Her hand shakes when she reaches for the handle. _Please, let it be unlocked._ She almost whoops in excitement when it opens, but she settles for a quiet squeal instead, turning on the fluorescent lights and blinding herself. 

“Dang it—” 

She shields her eyes and blinks just in time for one of the bulbs to flicker out and die, shrouding half the room in burnt shadow. The rooms needs better maintenance, Mr. Nakamura says that often, and Lena spends so much time in here that she could feel her way through the dark if needed (but she’s glad that she doesn’t). She starts by his desk, where he usually keeps his extra supplies, but she doesn’t see the film he set aside for her to use. 

“Where did you put it, Mr. Nakamura…” 

She tries a different cabinet, looking for his tight, messy scrawl with her name on a sticky-note, moving to the back of the class toward the darkroom when the usual spots turn up empty. Doubt creeps in. Maybe he didn’t leave her anything after all. She might have imagined the whole thing, thought he said one thing when it was really another. She’s all too aware of how much time is passing, how Rose must be waiting for her, and she’s almost ready to quit and resolve to wait when she checks the last cupboard just inside the small alcove that leads into the darkroom. 

_“Dóxa to theó!”_ she all but shouts, touching the silver cross necklace resting against her chest and looking skyward. Lena isn’t religious, she can’t remember the last time she went to church, but she still sends a silent _thank you_ to whoever might be listening. 

Mr. Nakamura's left three rolls of film for her; the nice kind, too. She opens her bag on the counter by the rinsing station, loading one of the rolls into her camera to save time when she meets Rose, making sure the teeth are holding the film properly and tightening the rewind knob until the slack is gone. She hums the tune for "Wannabe," singing the chorus under her breath as she sways her head back and forth, her exhaustion forgotten as she walks to the stairs, head bent as she starts setting the aperture and ISO. 

Lena thinks she's alone, so she doesn't think to look up until she's less than a foot from something warm, something breathing. She raises her head to be met with a tall shadow blocking the doorway—a phantom with a thin white outline giving it shape. She's too scared to scream. Her bag slips off her shoulder and she grips the camera so hard that she thinks her hand might bleed. It's a slow kind of terror that feels like it lasts for hours but transpires in a matter of seconds. She can't tell the difference. Her heart beats faster than she ever remembers it doing before, a sharp pain that makes it hard to breathe, the shadows becoming some heavy, terrifying thing on the cusp of swallowing her, dragging her down its wet throat to trap her in its stomach, leaving her to cry for help without ever being heard. 

It feels so real. She's sure her heart stops. She's almost certain that this is the last thing she'll ever know. 

But reality triumphs again. Her eyes adjust to see the outline of a face—a _person,_ not anything else. Her lungs remember how to draw in air and her mind clears. Her ribs hurt, heaving harder than they did when she ran, but she recognizes this face. 

It's the blond boy from before. He's just leaning against the door frame, unmoving, but he looks different than he did in class. She can tell what he's feeling now. He looks amused. Entertained. And he's smiling. She isn't sure if it's meant for her. 

“You—you scared me,” she forces out, covering the shake in her voice with a laugh.

“Did I?” he asks. His head tilts forward, his chin dipping toward his chest. He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth pulling back in a tight smile like it's attached to a line, like there's a hook in his cheek he can't remove. It's the most expressive she's seen him yet. 

Why is she so scared? What's there to be afraid of? It's irrational, her imagination gone wild to the point she almost gave herself a panic attack. It's like her dad tells her, she's too stuck in her own head, projecting. Her cheeks hurt with shame. 

“I—I'm sorry about that, I was… I was just surprised, I didn't think anyone else was coming down here." She sneaks a glance upward, and his expression changes. His eyes droop and his mouth softens, but he doesn't move. He must still be confused, she thinks, wondering why this crazy girl is wandering around the basement singing a Spice Girls song to herself. "I was just getting some film. Mr. Nakamura left me some—have you met him yet? I _usually_ know where everything is, but it’s a bit trickier in the dark.” 

She assumes he’s there because he’s going to join the class and wants to check out the room. Maybe he thought he was going to meet the teacher and is surprised to find it empty, too. She can't think of any other reason why he'd be here, why he doesn't leave now.

Lena assumes, but she never asks. 

“When you're in here developing a lot of film, you get a good feel for where everything is in the dark.” He's taller than her by at least six inches, and his shoulders are broader than she first thought, his shirt baggy against his lean frame. She looks away when she catches herself staring, twisting the camera strap around her finger. It's quiet when she doesn't speak. The only sound comes from their gentle breathing. Somehow, it makes the embarrassment worse. “You have to be careful with the light down here. It’s not a nice feeling when your photos are overexposed and all your hard work is gone. Have you ever had that happen to you? It did to me once, last year—I didn't really know what I was doing and ruined a whole batch of negatives.” 

She wants to say more, but she isn't sure of where to go next. He's still as a statue, his eyes flicking from the camera to her face. Even in the dark, she can feel the weight of them. She feels smaller. Her hand goes to her throat, twisting her necklace back and forth, the quiet almost unbearable. 

“So, too much light destroys it?” he asks. 

That's the most he's said to her in one sentence. His voice has a cadence that feels like a finger tracing her spine; it still surprises her how deep it is, the gruffness of it. She's happy he asked her something, and she tries to hold back a childish sense of eagerness. She nods, leaning against one of the long tables and setting her bag beside her. 

“When they’re being developed, yeah. And, well, I guess afterwards, too. You don’t want to leave them out in the sun, either. It bleaches the colour after a while.” 

“Light ruins it then?”

He surprises her again when he detaches himself from the doorway to sit on the desk beside her, his hand close to hers. Her skin warms like she's standing out in the sun on a summer's day. She's glad for the half-darkness so he can't see her face flush.

“Oh, no—that’s not entirely what I meant. It’s…” 

Now she's _babbling,_ out of sorts and tripping on her own tongue. She ignores how her skin feels like it's being pricked by a thousand small needles just shy of breaking through and looks away. She pretends she's talking to Rose, that it's not this boy—or is he a man? He sounds like a man—even though Rose doesn't smell like smoke, and her racing blood slows. 

"You need light to take the photograph; it’s what goes through the shutter to define the image and impose it on the film—you can’t take pictures without it.” She holds her camera up for emphasis, pointing to the lens and the small, intricate parts that keep it functioning, that allow her to try and make something beautiful. “It’s just after that you have to be careful. It needs to develop in the dark—it’s a volatile process. Heat and light can warp it, obscure the image. So we develop film in the dark and where it’s cool so we can see what we captured—it gives it a space to become what it’s supposed to be.” 

When he says nothing, she worries she's said too much again, droned on while he sits here bored. She pushes her hair behind her ear and risks a glance at him. He's staring at her, but it's different than before. There's mirth in his eyes, and their weight doesn't feel as heavy. His smile looks real, close-lipped but broad enough to show a faint dimple in his cheek. 

"Hmm." 

She smiles back too widely in comparison to his, and she bites her lip between her teeth, chuckling through her nose. “Sorry, I can talk too much. Just tell me when to stop if you feel like falling asleep.” 

He laughs quietly, a deep rumble in his throat. “It’s fine.” 

She thinks he means it, that it's not an empty nicety. Maybe it's because he says so little at a time, but what he does say sounds true to her ears. She stares at his profile again, distracted by how the muscles in his jaw tense and jump, how his curls are tighter at his temples, and she doesn't notice him taking her camera until it's out of her hands. A noise of protest rises in her chest, but she quiets it, biting her lip harder as she watches him turn over her camera in his large hands. They look strong, wiry, his grip sure and almost delicate. He examines every part like when he had stared at her before, gently running his fingers over the dial on the top and the shutter button. She remembers the brief moment when they touched her hand. 

She wants to tell him that's her only camera, that she saved all the money she could make for over a year to buy it used, how it's the one thing she owns that matters the most, but she doesn't. _Don't make a big deal out of it, it's fine, see?_ she thinks, wringing her hands to keep them from reaching for it. He'll give it back when he's done, she's sure of it, even if her stomach tries to tell her differently. 

He smirks. Her stomach does a flip and she gasps when her camera slips from his fingers, her heart stopping as every muscle seizes, but he catches it like he didn’t almost let it crash to the floor. His grip seems so steady now that she wonders if it even happened at all, if the half-light is playing tricks on her eyes. 

“Careful—” she says, reaching to take the camera back, but he pulls away, his head bent over it, examining without seeing. 

“I will.” He sounds amused, like she’s said something funny and he’s trying not to laugh. Her hands worry over one another, words itching to be spoken but left unsaid on her tongue. “It’s nice.” 

His voice sounds soft, some of the gruffness gone, and he holds her camera out and places it in her hands, making sure her grip is good before letting go. His fingers linger on the inside of her thumb, the calloused pads catching against her skin. That sense of tingling returns like he’s running a live current through his veins. She shivers. 

Lena isn’t sure what she expects to happen next, but it still jars her when he stands to leave, grabbing his bag from the floor to sling it over his shoulder. She looks away when she catches herself staring at his forearms. 

"Oh, um—” The words fade when he turns, eyebrows raised in curiosity. She takes a breath that feels too short. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your—" 

"Jack." It’s the first time his smile spans the entirety of his face, splitting it and showing straight lines of teeth. His dimples are more pronounced and, even in the dim light, his eyes seem brighter, like warm honey. 

"Right. Jack.” He goes to leave again and clears the doorway before she remembers why she wanted to talk to him before. He’s halfway up the stairs before she catches up to him, her camera tucked safely away in her backpack. “Jack, before you leave—could I have my pen back? The one I leant to you before? They're from that nice stationery store on 51st Street, and—"

He turns in place on his heel with a spin reminiscent of a showman, and Lena can almost see it for the half-bow he gives and the way he pumps his brows, his mouth pulling into a smirk. The look of amusement is more apparent in the light, and she hopes he can’t tell how much her cheeks darken, grateful for her brown skin to hide the rush of blood. 

His expression is almost bullish when he reaches behind his back. She holds her breath. "You mean _this_ pen?" She nods, reaching for her pen when he pulls it out from nowhere, hanging loosely between two fingers, only for him to pull back, going up another step to tower over her. "How 'bout I show you a magic trick instead?" 

"Magic?" 

She’s reminded of a show at Amusement Mile her dad took her to once. She was small, maybe six years old, and it was just before the park closed for good. She remembers standing in rapt attention, his cliché black tophat, his booming voice and the advertised opportunity to witness something spectacular. She remembers not wanting to see sparks or lights or proof of the supernatural. She remembers wanting to be fooled, for her eyes to be tricked with the promise of her belief being rewarded, being shown a hint of the truth behind the lie. 

"I'm going to make it disappear." 

She likes it when he smiles, how there’s something behind it with that same promise of the reveal. He holds the pen high. _Just a pen, just an ordinary pen,_ his eyes say. He twists it over his fingers like he had in class, like it’s some small baton that dips and weaves between his knuckles. 

His other hand waves in front of it once, twice. 

She leans against the wall, giving him the same attention she had to the magician, eyes open and searching for the illusion, the prestige.

His hand obscures the pen for the third time. 

_"And_ …” His hand drops with a dramatic flourish. “It's gone!" The hand that held the pen is empty, his palm facing up. He was too quick for her to see where it went, but Lena laughs and gives him his due applause, her eyes dropping to her shoes when his gaze doesn’t leave her face, not even when he bows. She doesn’t know if her skin will ever cool, if its staccato beat will calm. 

"You're good at that," she says, dragging her gaze up tentatively to find him standing straight, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, his grin fading. She swallows, uncertain. "I get to have it back, though, right?" 

It’s hard to keep her smile when his is gone. The air shifts, and she realizes that no one’s ever looked at her like he is now. Like he can see the thoughts as they appear in her head. Like he knows every one she’s ever had. Like he knows her dreams. 

For a moment, she thinks he’s going to leave, that he’s decided she’s not worth the attention. But he doesn’t. He drops down two steps in one stride, until his chest only inches away from hers. She can smell the cigarettes again, how it clings to his shirt, old sweat lingering in the fabric. There’s nowhere to back away unless she goes down the stairs, into the dark. She makes herself stand still, her hand shaking when she pushes her hair from her face. His face is carefully blank, empty, but his eyes feel like they’re trying to burn her alive. 

She can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. 

Her pen appears in front of her face, and she almost thinks it’s floating, jerking back and almost losing her balance. The corners of his mouth twitch at that, but he offers her the pen. Just like when she reached for it before, he draws back when her fingers brush his. 

"Your name." 

"Huh?" She winces, embarrassed at how she’s so easily distracted by him, how she keeps getting lost. 

"Your, ah, _name._ ” His eyes dart upward like he's staring at someone knowingly when she doesn’t answer. He sighs, his shoulders dropping as he cocks his head. “I told you mine, what's yours?" 

She shies under his attention, how close he is, but he doesn’t waver. She finds her voice. "I'm Lena." 

Jack grins again. It’s faint, the corners of his lips twitching. He stares at her mouth, his eyes tracing the curves of it, the warmth gone and replaced with something cold like smooth river stones, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. 

“Pretty.” 

She’s in the river again. She isn’t standing still anymore; she moves with the current, floating toward new horizons, her stomach in her throat, her eyes looking upward at the passing clouds, the tree branches reaching toward one another rather than the coming rocks. 

It’s when she blinks that she sees that he’s gone, that she’s alone. The dark crawls up the stairs behind her. 

She’s cold. Adjusting her bag, she winds her way through the halls. They’re darker than before, too. Like it bled from the basement to swallow the way. Guilt makes her throat tight. She realizes too late she’s left Rose waiting, that it’s probably dark, how she feels strange and light and heavy all at once. She's paying attention this time, looking where she's going, the tightness growing until she can't swallow.

“There you are!" 

She recognizes this voice, and the knife made of guilt twists a little deeper. She waves and smiles, jogging to meet Rose before she’s wrapped in a hug that’s so tight it takes her breath away. Rose is tense, her body a wound spring, but she relaxes when Lena hugs her back.

“I’m sorry,” she says into Rose’s locs. They’re damp and smell like perfume and wind; she takes a steadying breath. She hides her face so she doesn’t have to see her anger, but Rose doesn’t give her much choice, pulling away to look Lena up and down, her worry sliding into exasperation. 

“ _Jesus,_ Lena.” Now that she’s sure Lena’s in one piece, the frustration bubbles up, her hands tight at her sides. “Don’t freak me out like that.”

“Freak you out how?” Lena knows she shouldn’t have stayed, but she thinks Rose is overreacting. She wasn’t gone long. _Right?_

“I thought you were hurt or something—it’s been almost an hour.” 

Her stomach drops. Has she really been gone for that long? She imagines Rose waiting on her porch, bag at her feet and waiting for Lena to come running down the street. Shame burns her eyes. 

“Where’d that pale-ass beanstalk go?” Rose asks when Lena opens her mouth to apologize, looking down the hall the way she came. She’s angry, but none of it is directed at Lena. 

“Where’d what go?” Maybe it’s because she’s tired, but she doesn’t understand the question. Rose clicks her tongue. 

“The blond guy. Tall. Curly hair. Creepy.”

There’s an edge in her voice. She’s used to hearing it when Rose is ready to dig into someone like she did Eric, and she tries to laugh, wincing at how hollow it is. 

“Oh—Jack?”

Rose rubs her brow, her eyes trained to the ceiling like she’s silently asking for divine assistance. “I don’t _care_ what his name is. Was he here?”

She doesn’t mean to hesitate, but Rose knows the answer before she can make herself speak. “Um, yeah, just—just for a second.”

“Fuck, girl. You need to get your danger radar recalibrated,” Rose groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. She throws her wet locs over her shoulder, and Lena sees that it’s not just her hair that’s damp, but her clothes are, too. Small puddles form under her sneakers and drip down the seams of her jacket. 

“I still don’t really know what you’re talking about. And why are you soaked?” 

Rose turns the full force of her glare on Lena, her jaw tense and rigid. She inhales deeply, holding the air in her chest and letting it out in a sigh, her anger draining with it. “When you started going back to school, I saw him heading the same direction out of nowhere. I waited twenty minutes, but when you didn’t come back I thought something was wrong.”

“That might not have been him." Lena has the sudden urge to tell Rose what happened in the basement, that she doesn't need to worry. She wants to explain that Jack is nice, that she wasn't hurt and she’s fine, but Rose won’t be able to hear her if she tries. So, she swallows the idea, relegating her time spent sitting next to Jack into the small cache of memories she can’t tell Rose. Seeing her upset is like bruises forming on her own skin, and she forces herself to smile, to sound lighter than she feels. "And… And even if it was, it could’ve been for anything.” 

It doesn’t work. Rose deadpans, disbelieving. She crosses her arms. “Anything.”

“Yeah, he’s thinking about taking the class and—” 

“You are so _fucking_ naïve sometimes,” Rose interrupts, her voice hard. 

Lena flinches and stares down at the puddles under Rose’s feet, how they flood outward, their surface smooth until another drop falls from her jacket. She nods because Rose is right—she screwed up, she doesn't think about these things. It isn’t the first time. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” Her voice is softer, and she comes close to hug Lena again. They sway for a moment, and Lena relaxes. That’s right, Rose wants what’s best, wants her to be safe. Her nails gently scratch Lena’s scalp, working through her hair as she pulls away. She’s smiling, and Lena forgets her hurt. “Just… use your brain, alright?”

She nods and manages to laugh. “Alright. Sorry I made you worry.”

Rose waves the sentiment away, looping her arm through Lena’s like they always do as they walk down the empty halls. 

“Nah, I’m glad you’re good. Need to get you a watch with an alarm or something, though, or you really will turn into fungi somewhere and I won’t be able to find you.” 

She circles Lena’s thin wrist with her long fingers, and they joke about how Lena would forget that, too. It’s raining outside, and Lena covers her backpack with her jacket as she and Rose race back to her house, her shoes full of water and her pants soaked to the knees. She loves the rain, how it tickles her scalp, and she doesn’t feel the same exhaustion that she did running to school, her muscles warm and alive. 

Her mind doesn’t linger on what happened in the basement, but she doesn’t forget him this time. She doesn’t know if she ever will. She wonders if she’ll see him tomorrow and finds a small bit of happiness that Jack didn’t give her pen back, that he kept it in way of an excuse to talk to her again. She smiles when they pass the steel mill, like it somehow had a small hand in opening a new path to follow, some route to take her where she never imagined. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and checking this out! This takes place roughly twelve years before the events of _The Dark Knight_. If you're looking for a definitive origin for Jack/Joker here, you won't find much other than an array of multiple choices amid a cloud of ambiguity. I hope you'll join me for the ride. Reviews are very welcome and greatly appreciated!
> 
> I also want to extend my greatest gratitude to jasminau for all of her wonderful encouragement, her friendship, and her invaluable help. I couldn't do this without you! ❤


	2. Enchant

_I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow… shadow at the back of people’s eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth._

Sylvia Plath _,_ _The Bell Jar_

* * *

There’s something magnetic about cameras, isn’t there? 

Maybe it’s the way the shutter clicks as it traps the light inside itself like some small beast, or perhaps it’s the whirring sound of a hundred little parts working in tandem, mysterious mechanisms you can almost swear were wrought by magic that makes the intangible tangible, the ephemeral permanent, the illusory chase of catching the present become real and not some fleeting thing doomed to fade, relegated to the frayed edges of memory.

It's hard for Lena to explain why she loves her camera so much, why she wants to be like Sally Mann, Takeshi Mizukoshi, or Dorothea Lange, why she holds it so much that it's formed itself to her hands, memorized the dips and grooves of her thin fingers, worn smooth where they rest. It isn’t her oldest friend, but she knows it best; it makes her part of the world she often feels so distant from. She found it by accident, an old model of the Maxxum 7000 SLR she bought for 230 dollars last winter, and that was _after_ she convinced Stefan Rossi to drop it from 265. Lena doesn't have the money for fancy equipment, all those nice attachments and new lenses. She feels like a scavenger sometimes, searching through yard sale boxes and thrift stores and church giveaways, fixing what she can and lovingly holding it together when it falls apart.

 _Photographers don't make money, find yourself a nice boy_ , her _thea_ says when she comes to visit. _Pointless pastimes are for children,_ her dad says after he stumbles home after midnight, his voice like crushed gravel and his breath whiskey sour. 

But Lena persists. In this one thing, she persists. She is the keeper of the embers, breathing life into her dreams and unwilling to watch them starve and become some small pile of ash where her hopes go to die. 

So, she stands in the cold, her thick turtleneck and long-sleeve undershirt still not enough to keep her warm as the wind slashes through her denim jacket, her hands pale as her blood hides deep in her chest. She holds her camera steady with her eye pressed against the viewfinder despite her shivering, and she struggles to remember who she's meant to photograph. Her eyes wander. 

Cleats dig into the earth, muscles strung tight as they push forward. Warm breath billows from open mouths in small, steamy clouds. A rolling fog of heat and adrenaline hovers over the players, their bodies meeting like claps of thunder as the ball slips between their tangled feet. The refs calling fouls and giving warnings and the competing hollers of demoralization and cheering encouragement are background noise Lena registers only in how they shake the ground beneath her feet, how they gently rattle her bones. 

She focuses on the onlookers standing on the other side of the chain-link fence bordering the community field, their weight against it until the metal bows as their eyes intently follow the game. A few are in her classes, she thinks one even lives in her building, but she doesn’t know their names. It’s something in their posture, the way their clothes hang off lanky frames and skinny hips, the thick chains draping from their necks. Most of them have colourful bandanas, around their wrist or stuffed in back pockets, but their hues and meanings don’t matter to Lena; she’s shooting in black and white, and she adjusts her lens until the tips of their fingers pushing through the metal links are the focal point, the background faded and blurred. 

It’s just when she pushes the shutter button that a shrill blare rends the air, making her jump and her camera almost slip from her numb hands. She worries that she's ruined the picture at the last minute, and it’s when the crowd follows suit, their fists raised and voices howling after the namesake of their team, the Dumont High White Wolves, that she remembers why she’s here. The school chant booms across the field as their goalie holds the ball in his hands, his grin broad and cocky. She’s not sure what happened, which misses the entire point of her being at the game, and her stomach sinks deep in her belly, becoming a block of solid, extinguishing ice.

“ _Please_ tell me you got that,” Antonio Mendez says, coming up beside Lena as the crowd moves to recover its energy for the second half of the game, heading to one of the local food trucks parked on the street. He's the one who hired her last year, a junior and the editor of the school paper. Eyes a deep brown that borders on black and his nose flat and broad, he's only a hair taller than she is, but his vibrating intensity gives him the presence of a giant. 

“Oh, yeah—I've taken a lot of nice ones, I think,” she laughs, pulling on a lock of tangled hair. She's been taking pictures of something completely different, and she hopes she caught a shot of what he wants even if by accident. 

He sighs. “You better have some good stuff in there. It’s a soccer game and not an assignment from _National Geographic_. Keep it simple, alright?” 

Blood rushes to her cheeks, her nerves pinching awake, and she nods. He speaks brusquely but he’s always been patient and kind with her, even when he does swear under his breath in Spanish, often going as far as writing her a little bullet list of priorities before she goes to games or events. She'd lost the one he wrote for tonight, but she stays quiet, silently resolving to pay more attention and try harder. He shoves his notepad in his back pocket, surveying the field as the players down their bottles of Gatorade and wrap bleeding shins and arms with field tape. 

“We’ll go over everything on Monday, so have all the negatives with you and don’t forget them this time.” He gives her a meaningful look. 

Lena nods again, her teeth worrying over her bottom lip as she brushes her hair from her face, looking to the emptying bleachers so she can't see if he's frustrated or not. Antonio stays in place for a moment, his feet shifting as mud creeps higher up the soles of his white Nike's. He digs his hands into the deep inside his jacket—it's a nice one, the kind that keeps out the wind and rain with interlocking triangles in turquoise and moss green. "And... here.” 

Antonio pulls something out of his pocket. It's a pair of gloves, warm like small cinders, and he motions for her to take them. She shakes her head. “No, no—I couldn’t—”

“Yeah, you can. Your fingers are blue. Just bring them with you on Monday, and don’t forget about ‘em, either.” 

He's smiling a little, encouraging her. He doesn't do that very often. She takes them tentatively, her fingers already grateful when she slips them on. She waves when he leaves to talk to one of the assistant coaches, and she vaguely remembers that this game is a big deal; Antonio said something yesterday about play-offs. They had a big match the previous weekend against their local rivals, the Burnley Dragons, and she'd missed the game-winning shot because she focused on a group of girls sitting in a circle under the bleachers instead. It was something about how they leaned toward one another, how unconscious their smiles were, how they shared food and laughed together. It made her feel warm, the intimacy of it, and she wasn't thinking about the game then, either. She was homed in on the private moment like she was experiencing it herself. Her chest still hurts when she thinks about how everyone at the paper huffed in frustration when she didn't catch any of the shots they wanted _and_ forgot the ones she had taken for the meeting. 

_You can’t keep letting people down,_ she thinks, changing out her roll of film for a new one, making sure it's secured in its container before opening the panel to store it inside her bag. _No more daydreaming._ She nods to herself as she weaves through the crowd to get to the other side of the field, her head high and almost walking on the tips of her toes to see past the boys lining the way, her camera held protectively against her chest.

Lena resolves to pay more attention but misses how Antonio watches her go, how his smile is still in place before he shakes his head, turning his attention to the coach and laughing when the older man cracks a joke. Lena doesn't notice, but Jack does. He's beginning to notice a pattern. Granted, hers isn't hard to figure out. He can't help but grimace. 

_I wonder if she's always been like this_ , he thinks. He's unable to take away his attention from the Hispanic boy who spoke with her a moment ago, reading something there he doesn't like. Jack's observant, always has been. He has to be, given where he comes from, and he can count on one hand how often people proved him wrong when he's had them pegged. He likes to think of it as more of a blessing than a curse; it means his chances of being disappointed are low, even if it also means he stays bored. 

Jack's hoping that'll change soon. 

He’s never been one for organized sports, the crowds and the overzealous parents screaming on about their children’s mediocrity. Stimulus is what he actively seeks, but even at a packed high school soccer game with its flashing lights and the string-bean-teens ramming into one another, it’s boring. _Painfully_ boring. And that’s the worst insult Jack can think of bestowing on anything. 

He remembers why he came when he finds Lena again by the huddled second-strings, trying her best to squeeze by and apologizing to everyone she bumps into, even when they don’t seem to notice her at all. 

Gentle and forgiving to a fault. Jack finds it frustratingly endearing. 

He watches from a spot at the top of the bleachers, his ass numb after sitting there for the last hour, but he remembers what she looked like in the school basement. Her grey eyes are almost too big for her face, expressive and open, unguarded. He thinks she'll let anyone see inside, read each thought like they would a page in a book. Most folks try to put up a wall or two, some flimsy guise to hide behind, but it's like she never learned how. Another thing he likes about her. Usually, that ruins the game for him, playing with people who are so easy to read, but it doesn’t feel the same with Lena. He isn’t sure why. 

Not yet, anyway. 

Black wavy hair that spills down her back and skin like ashen copper, Lena looks more like a girl than someone on the cusp of being a woman. Such a small, ethereal little thing she is, like her maker left her clay too soft, failed to let her grow tall, left her curves and edges unfinished. She has the vulnerability of a kid who's never learned to have a healthy dose of pessimism and has the same trusting nature. Jack can't remember the last time anyone looked enchanted rather than scared when he got up to old habits, familiar methods of entertainment, and Lena’s hesitant, eager to please, afraid of inciting anger. 

She makes Jack want to try something new. 

He chain-smokes through the last half just to endure the monotonous game of over-complicated tag. His eyes follow Lena when they can before she dips out of sight, and his mouth pulls into a frown when he spots the tart she spends time with—he thinks her name is Rose—sitting with members of the basketball team, if their jackets are anything to go by. That’s something he’s never understood, why they compulsively advertise their athleticism as if it counts for anything when they graduate or until they blow out a knee or bend something the wrong way until it snaps. 

He takes a heavy drag as he glares, sitting back against the plywood railing and hiding behind the other game goers when Rose whips around, sensing his radiating malice. He’ll have to be careful with her. Navigating intuition is a balancing act between paranoia and genuine cause for concern, and he prefers to toe the line of the former, even if he hasn’t been the most successful in the past. 

But that’s all behind him now, starting _fresh_ and all that. 

His patience is rewarded. The White Wolves win, adding a new tick in their small roster of victories, and he waits—waits for the fans to pour down from the bleachers and flood the players, waits for them to disappear and do whatever it is people like them do to celebrate, waits until Rose is out of sight and Lena is alone. 

Throwing the remnants of his cigarette in the mud without bothering to stamp it out, he strolls up behind her. “Hey,” he says when he’s a few inches away. She jumps in surprise, her shoulders shooting toward her ears and emitting a squeak. He grins. 

“H-Hi,” she says after turning around, her hand on her heart and eyes wide. When the shock ebbs, she looks happy to see him. A novel concept. “Were you here for the whole game? I didn’t see you.” She must realize how widely she’s smiling because she forces a more neutral countenance to school her features, dampen her excitement. 

_Maybe she’s just eager in general,_ he wonders. He thinks it’s cute. 

Jack’s hands itch for another cigarette, but he forces them in his pockets and shrugs. “Decided to come for the last ten minutes.” He’s lying, but she can’t tell the difference. “You work for the paper.” He motions to her camera with his chin, not missing how she’s wearing gloves too big for her small hands; a man’s pair. His jaw tightens.

“Just as a photographer. I do games every once in a while and some of the bigger stories—well, as ‘big’ as anything gets here.” She chuckles through her nose, pushing her hair behind her ears only for the wind to undo her work and whip it around her face. The long tendrils seem alive, like spilled ink running down a page, and she bundles it in one hand to tuck it behind the collar of her jacket, shivering when the wind meets her exposed nape. 

“Place isn’t exciting enough for you?” he asks as they leave the community field and walk to school half a mile down the block. If it wasn’t for the subtle shake in her arms, he might not have noticed she's trembling. Her jacket’s too big and the denim worn thin; she has nothing to trap the heat inside. It reminds him of the one he has at home. 

“No, it’s not that. We’re pretty boring, but that isn't a bad thing.” She adjusts her jacket like she’ll find some new angle to keep out the wind. It doesn’t work and her teeth chatter. Jack’s cold just looking at her. “Is your old neighbourhood like this?” 

He hums his answer, head down as he thinks. The neighbourhood isn’t so different from his last one, but he doesn’t say so aloud. It all looks the same even if the crime rates vary by a small fraction, all brick and concrete and over-bright lights, dead trees and rusted playgrounds and tired people. He wonders if she’s lived here her whole life, if she ever plans on leaving. 

“I didn’t see you in class after Monday,” she says, interrupting his thoughts, “are you feeling alright?” 

Jack almost bursts out laughing, his chest rumbling with the force of keeping it in, and he smirks. He wants to point out the flaws in her thinking. _Do I look like the kind of guy who gets sick? Have you never heard of the terms ‘skipping’ and ‘not giving a fuck,’ sweetheart?_ The barbs are on the tip of his tongue, sharp and mean, but then she looks up at him, her eyes earnest and full lips pressed together tight. He swallows it all down, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to bathe his tongue in the sharp, rusted tang of liquid metal. 

“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks instead, tearing his eyes away from her as he feels anger build in his throat, anger he can’t explain. She beams at him. 

“Actually, Rose and I were—oh, have you met her?” she asks, words spilling out, rapid-fire, “We’re planning on going to the steel mill that isn’t far from here tomorrow, and—”

“Lena!” 

_Fuck off,_ he thinks, barely catching it in time before it slips from between his lips. They’re not far from one of the school’s back entrances, and he should have paid more attention. Rose is with the same group as before, lounging on a set of steps and laughing together, one of the boy’s arms draped behind her. She calls Lena over, but he’s surprised when she waves back but doesn’t change pace, staying with him as they draw near. It’s hard for him not to grin when Rose's falters. 

“What took you so long?” she asks, ignoring him as she jumps up and pulls Lena close. She angles their backs to him, looking over her shoulder once just in case it wasn’t obvious she did it on purpose. “C’mon, a few of us are going to Mike’s Place.”

“But I don’t…” Lena tries to turn, but Rose walks her towards the other group, her arm never moving as she leans her head atop Lena’s. 

“I’ll spot you. It’s fine.” 

He knows what she’s trying to do. He'd almost think it's funny as much as it is pathetic if it didn't annoy him so much. But he makes a show of shrugging; taking out his package of cigarettes and lighting one, he leans against a wall and makes himself at home. 

“Are you sure?” Lena asks under her breath, unsure if she should feel happy or guilty. Rose nods, waving away her worries. “Thanks.” 

One of Rose's friends breaks from the group, pulling out a couple of dollar bills from his wallet as he approaches Jack, adding some extra swagger like it’s meant to impress him. "Hey, can I bum one off you?" he asks. He's taller and bigger than Jack, his head clean-shaven and failing at growing facial hair. His pants are too big but he doesn’t wear a belt, his sweater rolled up just right to show off a striped pair of briefs. He isn’t sure what the look is meant to accomplish, but Jack shrugs and offers him the carton, taking the money and passing his lighter. 

In addition to the guarantee of cancer, smoking will garner a host of acquaintances, people who know the mutual craving and want group solidarity to bitch and moan when the weather's shit. It also gives him an excuse to stick around and listen, striking up a useless conversation about a local band coming to the area in a month with the guy who’s making a careful effort to keep five feet between them. 

“So?” Rose asks, nudging Lena in the ribs and smiling. 

“So…?” She laughs, one brow raised as she leans into Rose, trying to capture some of her heat.

“What’s up with Tony?”

That catches Lena off guard. She pulls away enough to meet Rose's eyes, confused, and Jack tries not to scoff as he exhales. “Antonio? Nothing.” She crosses her arms, letting her hair fall and hide her face. He doesn't miss how she's lowering her voice, either. 

Rose looks skyward, hand on her forehead as she slumps against the stair railing. “ _C’mon_ , girl, don’t tell me you’re blind.” She takes Lena's hands in hers and pulls on the gloves. Her face flushes and she hides them in her pockets, her shoulders drawing in like she means to fold herself in half. Jack would like to say Rose is being dramatic, but he finds himself agreeing. Privately, of course. 

“As if, Rose.” She's trying to laugh it off, but it descends into silence as she squirms in place. “He’s just being nice.” 

She sounds like she means it, too. Rose isn't so convinced. 

“Sure, Lena. Sure.” She grins widely, wiggling her eyebrows, and Lena groans and picks up her bag, walking away with an exaggerated wave. Rose laughs, saying goodbye to her friends on the step and catching up with Lena. “We still meeting tomorrow? I wanna get it done early. Gotta plan our costumes for next week.”

They're just about to pass him, and then that'll be it. He'll have to wait for another opportunity to arise for what he has in mind. He thinks he's been patient enough today. 

“I thought we weren’t going—”

“I’d be careful at the mill if I were you two,” he says just as they're level with him on the street, examining the cigarette between his fingers, admiring the intertwining tails of smoke rising in the air. 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Rose bites. Lena is quick to come to his rescue, giving her a sharp look. 

Jack holds out his hands, placative. “Fine, fine. Forget I said anything.” He goes back to staring down the street, taking a short drag and blowing the smoke out his nose. Rose is trying to leave, but Lena won't let her. It takes a surprising amount of self-control not to smirk at that. He doesn't think Rose will appreciate it. 

“What is it, Jack?” Lena asks, coming closer. Close enough that he can smell her perfume. Something with lilac and magnolias. He doesn't like how it makes his head feel unsteady, his anger so present and his blood burn. 

He tilts his head to the side, employing his familiar and ever-present sense of detachment, noting how it doesn't come as easy today. “Mill’s dangerous, y’know.” 

He has to give it to Rose, he doesn't think it matters what he says, she'd have him dead to rights any day of the week. He almost wants to pat her on the head for it. Maybe offer a cookie he doesn't have. 

“No one _asked_ you, blondie—”

“Dangerous how?” Lena asks, no doubt trying to mitigate her friend's hostility, and he pretends he doesn't notice. 

“Gangs hang out there. They like that it’s quiet. No surveillance and all that.” He takes another hit, holding it in his chest for ten beats before releasing. He almost laughs at Rose's burgeoning sense of conflict. 

_Got you,_ he thinks. 

“And how would _you_ know that?” she asks, eyeing him warily. 

He shrugs, throwing the butt of his cigarette in the gutter, watching as the ashes burn bright seconds before being swept away down the storm drain. “My uncle used to work there.” That's a lie, too, but Rose can't tell any better than Lena can. Not at the moment, anyway. “Why do you wanna go, anyway?” 

Lena comes to life, her face alight even when she's still shaking from the cold. “For my project. I was supposed to go there earlier in the week, but…” She trails off, lost in a thought Jack can't trace. She recovers quickly, shaking her head like a puppy. He has that odd pang again, the one where he finds it sickeningly appealing. “So Rose and I are going tomorrow instead.” 

Jack mulls his options, his jaw working back and forth. “I know better places than that. If you’re interested.” 

“Better," Rose deadpans, unimpressed. 

This is where that fine line comes into play, pitting her desire for the illusion of security against their original plans. He keeps his face neutral, his posture loose as he presses his shoulder against the wall, the stucco biting his shoulder and grabbing his sweatshirt. “Yeah. Foreclosures the junkies and bums haven’t staked a claim to yet. A bit harder to get to but less to worry about.” What he said about the mill wasn't a lie, he's heard things in his short time in the neighbourhood, but he doesn't really know if the places he had in mind would be much better. But that's part of the fun. “I could take you.” 

He overestimated how much he swayed Rose. She raises a brow, giving him one lingering stare as her lip all but curls at him. “Nah. We’re not interested—”

“Rose,” Lena interrupts, nudging her gently. “I’d like to see it.” She says it so quiet that Jack isn't sure he heard her right, but Rose's face changes, the hostility leaving as soon as she makes eye contact with her. 

“You can't be serious," she mumbles back, turning from him like that somehow gives them an extra barrier of privacy. 

“C’mon, you’re the one who said you didn’t like the mill, anyway…” she says, her hesitancy turning into a warm smile. He underestimated her power to be quietly persuasive. 

Rose rubs her brow and sighs. With a withering glare, she looks at him, resigned. There's no trust, no goodwill, and he doesn't blame her. “Fine. Where’s the place?”

Jack finally lets himself grin. 

* * *

Lena knows she's in trouble when she opens her apartment door. 

She's exhausted, spent after three and a half hours at Mike's Place with Rose, Carter Nguyen, Djamal Greene, and Ayesha Harris bowling and eating too many nachos. She stopped keeping track of the time after the second round when they had a competition for who could knock down the most pins while sitting on the floor and pushing the ball with their feet. She doesn't know the others very well, they've always been Rose's friends, but it was nice to feel included, to have people to laugh at her jokes and loop her in with theirs. Her stomach is full from the food they shared, her head brimming with the promise of tomorrow, meeting with Jack and exploring new, uncharted territory. The pleasant absence of hunger and quiet joy evaporates when she sees her dad's shoes on the inside doormat, a mud-covered and toppled pile she almost trips on. Her feet feel heavy now, weighed down with cinder blocks. She can't move from the doorway, like the stained, orange carpet from the hall grew tall enough to wrap itself around her ankles. 

_"Pou ísoun, glykiá mou?"_ her dad calls from the living room. _Where were you?_ He's speaking Greek, which means he's drunk. The milkshake she shared with Rose sours in her stomach. 

His voice draws her forward like a shove against her back, and she takes a deep breath. _"Me fílous, bampá,"_ she replies, wincing when she stumbles over the pronunciation. Lena takes care to put the shoes in their proper place, hanging up his fallen jacket and her own. She makes sure her hair is in place before she quietly pads down the hallway, catching a waft of the cold, greasy aroma of old fast food sitting on the kitchen table, and comes to a halt at the living room doorway. Her hands are hot, her back covered in cold sweat, but she makes herself stand still. He doesn't look at her, his eyes glued to the old TV set. He’s watching a game of soccer between Manchester United and Southampton, a can of beer dangling loosely in his hand. Lena is certain it isn't his first. "I'm sorry," she says, her knuckles paling as she holds her bag, "I… I didn't realize what time it was." 

He drags his eyes away from the game to look at her; she tries not to flinch. Lena always thinks of him as being a bear, short but broad, his arms composed of tight, sinewy muscle from working at the local meat processing plant, his hands like large, padded paws, his skin hard and leathery like the tip of a bear’s nose. She can't remember a time when he didn't smell like blood. Not fresh, but old blood that's been left to sit out in the heat, coagulate and thicken. She doesn’t think there’s much to scrutinize today; she’s wearing a thick, shapeless sweater, no makeup, her jeans big and long and her hair a wind-swept mess of frizz and tangled waves. But she should know better; he doesn’t need a reason to be mean. 

_“Me poion ísoun?”_ he asks, his eyes fixed on the exposed skin of her neck. _“Se poion féresai símera?”_

Lena attended free Greek lessons provided by the local orthodox church until she was fourteen, but she doesn’t understand most of the intricacies of the language, still trips over the syllables and where to make her voice harsh and then soft. She can understand it better than she can speak it, and she catches his meaning in how he stares at her chest, how his eyes get heavy. 

Stomach turning, she looks at her socked feet, counting the small tears and blue stripes. “I was with Rose,” she says quietly. 

He takes a long swig of his beer and burps, shouting at the TV when Southampton scores. Manchester’s losing, and Lena knows the weekend will be rough. It always is when his team loses. Gambling, and gambling badly, has that effect on him. “Get me another one,” he says, shaking his empty can at her, his accent thick with booze. He laughs when she flinches after he tosses it at her after she’s slow to move, but she obeys, getting him a cold can and opening it for him, the condensation dripping down her fingers. He takes it and Lena thinks he’s done with her for tonight, she can go to her room and read before she falls asleep. 

But he isn’t. 

He grabs Lena by the wrist and yanks her into his lap, wrenching her arm in a way she knows will bruise tomorrow. She takes it silently, only a small groan escapes, her spine stiff and her eyes down as he grabs the back of her neck. 

_“Koítaxé me, glykiá mou.”_

She hates it when he’s like this. Most nights he’s at the bar down the street watching games with his drinking buddies, stumbling home and collapsing on his bed when he's out of money or they throw him out. Lena is awake by then, taking off his shoes and rolling him over so he doesn’t choke if he gets sick, pushing a pillow under his head to help with the migraine he’ll have in the morning, and she wakes early to wash the sheets when he occasionally wets himself. But tonight he’s at home, much earlier than she’s used to despite it being eleven-thirty, and he isn’t drunk enough to leave her alone. She doesn’t have a locked door between them, and that means listening and being quiet. 

“ _Koítaxé me,_ ” he slurs, his grip tightening. It hurts to sit on his thigh, her legs at an odd angle that leaves them numb. She’s all too aware of how she’s positioned, how he is. She keeps her expression blank, looking into his eyes and holding his stare. His face is so unlike hers. Muddy brown eyes, salt and pepper hair, his nose swollen and red, she doesn’t see any of herself in him. She often wonders if she’s related to him at all, if her mom made a mistake and left her on the wrong doorstep. _“Ísoun kaló korítsi símera?”_

_Were you a good girl today?_

It’s difficult to swallow, but she manages, even summoning a small smile. _“Nai, bampa,”_ she says, disliking how hollow she sounds. He steals her voice when he brushes his fingers through her hair and rests his hand near the base of her spine. His eyes can barely focus on her, shifting between her face and the TV, and his hand is heavy when he rests it on her thigh. She feels sick, but she doesn’t look away. 

_Stay calm and you’ll be in bed soon,_ she thinks, not knowing if it'll be true. 

Lena isn't sure what he's going to do next, even as his hand slides further up her thigh and she thinks her skin will peel itself from her bones, but then Manchester scores and her dad is out of his seat, cheering and spilling his new beer all over the carpet, throwing her off to land on her backside. She knows she'll have to clean it up tomorrow, but it's more important to crawl away while his attention is elsewhere. He'll forget about her when she's gone, just like he always does. It's hard not to run, but she knows it'll provoke him, if he thinks she's afraid. When she manages to get to her room and shut the door gently, sliding the deadbolt she installed last year home, she slides to the ground, her chest heaving. 

_I should've stayed with Rose,_ she thinks, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes to keep everything inside, to hold herself together. She offered and Lena said no, thinking she'd be a bother on short notice, (after all, they’re seeing each other again tomorrow morning, a break would be good wouldn’t it?) and now she wishes she could climb out the window and walk there. But Gotham isn't a place where girls like her can be out alone, so she resolves to stay, quelling her fear and hiding it behind her heart, far from view. 

The room is dark. Her window faces the alleyway, and no light filters through the black metal of the fire escape. She could reach up and turn on her light, but she knows where everything is by heart. Her mattress is only a few feet away, close to the floor atop a few pallets, her small bookshelf with all her favourite novels is to her left, her desk and all of her camera equipment safely stored in her spare backpack are tucked away in the corner to her right, and strings of photographs and lights loop around the thin walls. On one wall she has a mural of photographs she’s taken and her favourites from magazines that she cut out to add to it, everything from landscapes and gardens to her favourite bands and clothes she likes. It makes the space feel like hers, like she has more than the physical objects in her room. Her small world feels bigger when she often hears her neighbours, their hushed conversations and yelling matches and the times they seek each other out, the warm words they speak. Sometimes she wonders if she imagines that part, the warmth and love, but that isn't what's important to Lena. Even if it isn't entirely real, hearing something kind at home lets her pretend it's being said to her instead. 

She shivers when she pulls off her jeans, her skin immediately covered in goosebumps as it tightens under the cold's biting touch. Her sweater and undershirt stay on; they’re thicker than any pyjamas she owns, and she finds her sweatpants in the dark, pulling them on and not caring that they’re probably backwards. The room wasn't meant for anything but storage (or, that's what her dad told her), but she's made it hers all the same, even if she can never quite make it warm enough. Tonight, though, she can't bear to look at any of it, how it's only big enough to walk three paces and how the floor is freezing to the touch, and her neighbours are quiet. She is alone. 

_But that’s okay,_ she thinks, smiling to herself, _tomorrow I won’t be._

She feels like an oversized bug when she crawls underneath her blankets, slithering on her stomach like a worm under the earth. Her bed is hers, her bed is safe. She keeps the blankets wrapped around her in a tight cocoon, and she tries to think of better things, happier things. She imagines someone saying something softly to her now, petting her hair and expecting nothing else. She thinks of tomorrow, how she'll see Jack and Rose, and she breathes out a sigh when she thinks of the adventure they'll have, what new things they'll find, and Lena falls asleep in a green field she's never been to, feeling the soft caress of grass against her skin, the gentle wind ruffling her hair, the sun bathing her skin. It doesn't matter that it isn't real. It doesn't matter that she's never seen so much rolling green herself. It matters that she can feel it, taste the spring damp air on her tongue, smell the pine as she breathes. It matters that, just for a moment, she's no longer here, in her cold apartment, shivering under her duvet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I split this chapter into two because it was close to 16k and I didn't want to do that to you, lmao. The next part will be up early next week! 💖
> 
> Thank you so much everyone who's reading and left comments, y'all mean the world to me! I hope you enjoyed part I and are looking forward to part II :)
> 
> And here are some of the Greek translations: 
> 
> Me poion ísoun - who were you with?  
> Se poion féresai símera - who did you whore yourself out to today?  
> Koítaxé me - look at me  
> Nai, bampa - yes, dad


	3. Enchant II

_This body knows fear like a front porch knows welcome—it is always coming home._

Brenna Twohy, _Swallowtail_

* * *

It isn't a rare sight for fog to blanket Gotham, for the drops of early morning dew to suspend themselves in the air, stuck in a state of in-between, not quite rain and not quite snow. Golden light becomes single, enclosed lanterns, their faded beams small, soft hemispheres, little suns onto themselves. Red squares run up and down the street, engines roaring with the effort and spewing out grey clouds that stain the air before it disperses, caught in a breeze and carried away. Lena loves the mystery of it, how the world becomes a blank canvas of surprises before the sun chases the mist. The brisk air is sharp and clean in her lungs, damp and cool, and it’s as if she and Rose are the only two people who exist, like there's a new horizon for them to discover alone. 

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Rose asks.

They leave the edge of Burnley and enter Newtown (which is a bit of a misnomer to Lena, being that it’s one of the oldest neighbourhoods on the East Side), and the local shops and apartment complexes fade into old houses with yards, two-storey spires and bay windows and stained glass, a result of Gotham’s efforts in 1910 to gentrify the neighbourhood with a gothic revival aesthetic and lush parks that stretch down the rolling street as far as she can see. For a while, wealthy people did live here, bringing with them specialty stores and good schools, until the Depression came and gangs and crime took over just like it did everywhere else, and the houses fell into disrepair, the lawns overgrown and the brick defaced with spray paint and dirt and grime, doors and windows boarded up and shattered glass adorning the pavement, grinding into fine sand as it crunches under their sneakers. 

"We’re going the right way. Yeah, definitely.” She wants to add ‘I think’ but doesn’t, forging ahead with confidence that Jack won’t lead them astray. She holds the instructions he dictated to her the day before in her hands, carefully ensuring the street names match as they walk further from home. 

“I swear, if this is him trying to bamboozle us, I won’t need Djamal to kick his skinny ass, I’ll do it myself,” Rose mutters under her breath. 

“‘Bamboozle us’?” Lena laughs, shaking her head. “I think you’re being a bit harsh." 

This is a continuation of a conversation they had last night when Rose elaborated on _The Jack Situation,_ as she called it, coming up with jokes that made Carter and Ayesha and Djamal laugh and Lena sit back quietly, unable to think of any rebuttal, growing more uncomfortable as their jokes transitioned from calling him "weird" to "freak." If it’s true, what does it say about her? She remembers the times she’d talk about her photography projects or how space and light can drastically change a photo and what it says to the viewer and Rose and Ayesha would stare, look at one another, and change the subject without comment. She wonders if they thought the same about her then. 

No. _No._ Lena knows Rose didn't mean it that way, she _knows_ she didn't. But the thought lingers, growing more insistent the closer they get to the agreed meeting spot. 

Rose scoffs. “It ain’t harsh if it’s true.”

She tried in vain to convince Lena to stay at her house for the day and plan their Halloween costumes for the upcoming party on Friday. After the way she talked to Eric, she didn't think Rose wanted to go, but she seemed eager when it was Djamal inviting them both to Riley's. She sounded excited from the way she talked about it last night, and Lena didn't want to say no, to ruin the fun. She asked Rose if she was dating Djamal, if that's why she wanted to go, but Rose insists they're just friends. She believes her; Rose has been clear about her stance on dating, and she doesn’t mind having him around. He’s nice to Lena, if a bit awkward when Rose isn’t around, and he’s big, well over six feet and nearly three times her size. He spends most of his time in the gym when he isn’t with his friends, and the thought of him beating up Jack makes Lena’s chest constrict. 

“You don’t even know him—”

“Do you?” Rose interrupts, raising a brow. 

Lena can’t understand why Rose’s acting mean. She likes Jack, even if they think he's weird. She can’t pinpoint what it is exactly, but she likes how she feels around him, his energy and how he surprises her, his smile and the warm feeling she gets in her stomach, licking the inside of her throat like gentle flames. He needs friends and so does she; her world can't always be so small, and she thought Rose would be happy she's meeting new people, but she can't account for her anger, what she doesn't understand but Rose does. 

“There isn’t anything wrong with giving people chances,” Lena says as they take a left down a side street, only three blocks away now, “He’s nice and—”

Rose stops and takes Lena’s hands in hers, staring hard. Lena sees frustration; she’s holding back what she really wants to say. She waits for a reprimand, a not-so-gentle cue to grow up, but Rose sighs. “Just… trust me on this one, okay? You don't want him around.” She doesn’t look away, her gaze steady and piercing. She's like Jack that way, how she can pin Lena in place with her eyes alone, with a feeling and the way she tilts her head. Lena feels compelled to listen, and the tension in Rose's expression eases when she nods. “Good. We’ll get your pictures, peace out, find our costumes, and I can help you with your calc homework. Sound like a plan?” 

She can't find it in herself to smile, her hopes for today dangerously close to shattering. “Yeah,” she says, discomfort settling in her stomach, “sounds good.” 

Rose doesn’t seem to notice, and they walk in silence, cutting through a park and sticking to the path. It might be early in the day and quiet, but the danger of being jumped is an ever-present one. There isn't much traffic and Gotham’s skyscrapers are to their backs, but the fog is thick enough that Lena can almost convince herself she somehow ended up in London, the trees on fire with sunbursts of yellow and orange, their leaves scattered on the browning grass, blanketing the earth in scattered drips of melted gold. She almost doesn't want to leave until they pass a group of boys sitting on the remnants of a rusted playground, all with joints in their mouths, the air heavy with the pungent smell of skunk. Their eyes linger on Lena's hair and Rose's legs, and they grin broadly. The world doesn't feel empty like it did before. Now it feels too full, filled with eyes that see all. Rose and Lena walk faster. Their heads down and expressions blank, both pretend they don't hear the jeers and catcalls lobbed after them as they run up the stairs leading to the street, their arms brushing against each other in quiet solace. 

Lena stops to catch her breath when they reach the sidewalk, relieved. Her small chest heaves under the added weight of her backpack, and Rose stands tall, unaffected. “Which house did blondie say?” 

She takes a small gulp of air and checks the instructions, squinting. “528 Gilmore Street.” She looks at the house closest to them, searching for the number and pointing, “This one’s 523, so just up the street a bit more.” 

She was chilly before they ran up all those stairs, even with the double sweaters instead of just the one like she wore yesterday, but her excitement brings her to the point of boiling as they get closer, the dread she felt last night erased. She forgets about how she spent thirty minutes scrubbing her living room carpet before she left her apartment, cleaning up the dishes her dad broke. He didn't do it on purpose this time, she thinks. From what she could tell, he was trying to heat up leftovers and dropped the hot plate and couldn't clean it up. He didn’t make it to his room, either. Passing out in his chair, his head cradled by his shoulder. He always looks younger when he sleeps, like how Lena remembers him from when she was little, less angry. She doesn’t know what she’s done to make him change when he’s awake. 

She can’t help but think of how she’s made Rose angry today, too. 

_No, no. Don’t think like that._ All of that is behind her now, she has too much to look forward to, and she's glad she didn't tell Rose about what happened, didn't give her another thing to worry about. She’s almost vibrating by the time they get to the right house, outpacing Rose and grinning broadly. 

"Remind me to get some of your zest for life," Rose laughs, eyeing up the house they’re meant to explore, her mouth in a tight line and her brows raised in disbelief. 

It’s the kind Lena's seen in movies set in North Carolina, a corner house with a wraparound porch and narrow balcony, pointed pinnacles and parapets. The stone underneath used to be yellow from what she can tell, its roof and accents pine green. Any of the intricate woodwork trim that once existed is broken chunks and half-formed arches now. It's completely boarded up, the porch blocked off with sheets of plywood and the windows bricked shut, the lead glass gone or destroyed, and a large sign reads _BANK FORECLOSURE_ on what would've been the front entry. Graffiti marks every inch within reach, obliterating whatever pattern or design existed before. Gang tags, small murals, and ‘fuck the cops’ are the most prominent motifs, but nothing looks recently disturbed, and there’s no sign of Jack. 

"He sure knows how to pick 'em,” Rose murmurs, crossing her arms and jutting a hip, her mouth twisting to the side, “Why would he bring us to a skeeze pit like this?" 

Once again, Lena doesn't see what Rose does. Words often fail her, evaporating in her throat before they make it to her tongue, trapped in her head in images and feelings rather than something she can articulate. She loves the house, how the withered silver birch tree on the corner pivots and curves as it reaches for the sky, its leaves gone and spindly branches all that remains. The house is rough and beaten up, neglected and decaying, but it has a story to tell, more than she could imagine alone. She thinks Rose is still saying something, commenting on how the overgrown ivy almost reaches the roof, but Lena’s pulling her camera out of her bag, taking two steps back to stand in the street to frame the picture. To her, this is where her camera extends as an expression of herself. She craves to tell stories with the right angle and particular gleam of light, to find the deep sense of feeling and place that cannot be encompassed in language alone. She wants to capture what speaks beyond the real, what tells her she's awake and breathing, that her world isn't some trance, passing moments strung together without meaning, that there’s something even here in this house left to rot and die.

“Can’t this be enough?” 

Lena’s thoughts fade, Rose’s voice loud in her ear. She tries to hold onto them before they vanish. 

“Hmm?” 

“You’ve got some pictures, let’s leave. If we walk fast, Ma might have some pancakes left.” 

Lena looks up from her camera, hoping Rose is joking. She isn’t. “But we… Jack’s waiting.” 

“Fuck that guy,” she spits, her anger returning. “I don’t see him and we can’t wait out here for long.” They both think of the boys in the park, how it isn’t far from where they are now, how the street’s empty. Rose swallows. “C’mon, this place can’t be _that_ exciting.” 

She opens her mouth to argue, but she doesn’t know if she can win. How will she tell Jack they’re leaving? Will he stand here waiting for them, disappointed as the minutes tick by and they don’t show? No. She can’t do that. She _won’t_ do that. 

“I… I don’t have enough to finish my project,” she says lamely, eyes on her feet, “and we’re here, you know? So… I—I thought it would be fun. For both of us.” 

Rose sighs through her nose, and Lena thinks she’ll come up with another point, a new strike against Jack, but she joins Lena and puts an arm around her shoulders, staring at the house with subdued interest. She clicks her tongue. “We’re gonna need tetanus shots by the time we finish, I hope you know that.” 

“Okay, Dr. Williams.” Lena leans her head on Rose’s shoulder before spinning away playfully, her sense of adventure renewing, “You can fix us up if some ill should befall us.” She speaks with a posh accent, hand on her chest and eyes skyward as she straightens her back, a smile pulling at her lips. 

“If you break something I get to say ‘I told you so’.” She rolls her eyes and makes her way through the yard. Tall grass dotted with litter and lick their calves, wet and cold. 

Jack didn’t specify if he was meeting them at the front or the back of the house, so they round the corner and encounter a fence penning the backyard. The wood is like the front of the house, covered in graffiti from top to bottom. Most of it is big block letters that Lena can’t make out, and she snaps a picture of it, too—catching it at an angle, the world tipped on its side—before she tries peeking through the damaged planks. It's just as unkempt as the front, the grass is yellow and tall, trash and beer bottles and used needles strewn around the small patches where it looks like someone might have sat or maybe slept for a few hours. She stands on the tips of her toes, looking for Jack. He said he'd be there before them, but she sees no one else. 

"I guess we keep waiting," Rose says, crossing her arms as she looks around, hoping no one is watching. Or, at least no one who cares enough to call the cops on them. 

The end of the street is thick with mist, framed by the drooping branches of the trees lining the sidewalks. It’s a rolling, opaque cloud come down to earth to visit, wrapping the air in a thick haze. Lena can almost see shadows moving inside it, twisting around and ready to take shape before disappearing into the ether, mercurial and liquid. It seems to roll closer to them, swallowing earth and sky, bringing its dark shadows with it. She ignores the pressure in her stomach, taking a shaky breath. 

"He'll be here soon," she says, as much assuring herself as Rose, "he said—" 

"Hey."

Jack stands on the corner of the street where they were a moment ago, the burning end of a cigarette in his mouth a small orange beacon before he takes one last drag and drops it, extinguishing the light under the heel of his beat-up Converses. 

"Jesus," Rose seethes, her teeth bared. Lena's afraid she's going to live up to what she said before. "Speak of the fucking devil…" 

" _Rose_ ," Lena whispers, pulling on her arm and giving her a significant look. She knows Rose asked for her trust, but that doesn't mean she has to be rude. Lena tries to communicate as much, widening her eyes marginally and imploring her to at least try giving him a chance. What she hid behind her heart last night threatens to spill over when Rose glares. "Have you been waiting long?" she asks, turning her attention to Jack, smiling through the sinking feeling in her stomach. She wanted this to be a fun morning, had convinced herself it would be last night, and the threat of it falling apart before it starts is almost too much to bear. 

It's like Jack reads what she's thinking better than Rose can. He studies Lena's face before looking at Rose. She can almost see his retort forming in the way the corner of his mouth twitches, but she sighs in relief when he walks toward them without comment. 

"C'mere, there's a hole in the fence." He goes to the mouth of the alley and waves for them to follow. He knocks on the planks, one by one, and on the seventh, it moves to the side, unsecured. Pulling it out of the way, he creates an opening wide enough for them to crawl through. 

"Won't the neighbours care that we're breaking in?" Rose asks, not moving from her spot, her muscles tense. "You know, being that we're doing this in broad daylight." 

Jack smiles impishly at her. "This ain't the kind of neighbourhood where they call the cops. We don't touch their stuff, they don't give a shit." Lena starts toward Jack, her backpack already off her shoulders, but Rose doesn't move. She feels stuck between going back or forward, and the tension grows. "You got any other… _grievances_ you wanna air out or do you want to keep wasting time?" 

He’s still smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. She’s afraid Rose is going to turn and leave, but she meets Lena’s gaze once before walking forward, each foot dragging like she’s being pulled against her will. Jack’s grin broadens, and he sweeps out his arm and half bows like he had on the stairs when he performed his magic trick for her, but it feels more mocking now than it did then. Lena beams at him and misses Rose’s scowl, but she places her backpack gently through the opening first before crawling after it, careful to avoid anything sharp and brushing the dirt from her knees as she straightens. 

"Glad I put on old clothes," Rose grumbles, right on Lena’s heels, and Jack follows after, putting the wood plank back in place. 

The back of the house is similarly boarded up, the windows impenetrable and doorway nonexistent. Lena's brows furrow in concern. "How are we getting in?" She stands next to him, craning her neck upward as she examines the splintering window shutters and peeling paint. He's close enough that she can feel his heat, how it radiates off him. She feels warmer just for being near.

This time, his smile does reach his eyes. "Right here." He crouches down and moves aside a thick bunch of wild ivy to reveal a basement window. It isn't large, just big enough for Jack to fit his shoulders through, and it's not sealed. The glass is too dirty to see past, but Lena wants to be the first one inside. 

"How did you even know about this place?" Rose asks, catching Lena by the shoulder before she can kneel beside him. Distrust pours off her in great waves. There's an accusation in her voice, and Lena wants to defend Jack, even if she doesn't know what she's defending him from. 

"It's what happens when you move a lot," he says, his voice dropping a register and his smile gone, "you get to know the city better than most." He narrows his eyes. "Or is there… something _else_ you're implying?" 

The small hairs on the back of Lena's neck stand at attention, her skin rippling as her muscles jerk, and she stands between them, worried about Rose hitting him with her bag as much as she's worried Jack will say something he can't take back. "Hey, we're here to explore, right?" She clears her throat before continuing, her voice croaky, "So let's… It doesn't matter how he knows, we're not hurting anything and we're just here to look. Aren't we?" 

Lena looks to Jack, eyes big and hopeful. She sees something in his she doesn't quite like, something heavy that leaves her breathless. She can tell he's thinking, deliberating, and she's relieved when his expression clears, the tension easing away. Something remains that Lena can't identify. "Yeah. Just to look." 

She smiles and turns to Rose, taking her hands in her own as she had earlier. “We won’t be here long. It’s probably the biggest house I’ll ever go in.” She feels pathetic when she says it out loud, but she doesn’t let her smile falter. “It’ll be fine, and we… We won’t stay long, alright? Then we can go to the Salvation Army on the way back.” 

Rose holds her gaze for a long moment before she glares at Jack, imparting a warning that Lena can hear all too clearly in her head, but she nods. Lena decides to have enough excitement for the both of them. 

Jack pries at the basement window, stuffing a small stick into the frame to jam it open. “Ladies first,” he says. His curls stick to his cheeks, the back of his neck, and she's struck with the irrational urge to smooth them away. She wonders if he ran here, if he was late waking, if he’s as eager as she is. “Lena, you’re the smallest, so you’ll have to help us through, hmm?” His eyes glimmer and suddenly she feels too hot in her sweaters. She nods. 

He takes her hand in his, his palms large and warm. She’s sure he could envelop the entirety of her hand if he closes his. She slides her feet through the window first, his grip is steady and strong, and she slowly lowers herself down, feet searching for purchase, anything solid. For once, she doesn’t mind being so thin, she slips through easily, even having enough room to turn onto her stomach as she hangs in freefall for a moment, not knowing how far she needs to reach before her toes will touch the ground. 

“Doing okay, shortie?” Jack asks, chuckling. 

“Yes!” she squeaks, bracing herself to drop the rest of the way, “Y-You can let go now.” 

_But I don’t want him to._

It’s an odd thought, quick and insistent, and she pushes it down just as fast as it came. He lets go and her stomach lurches, and she almost yells as she falls from the remaining three feet, her legs shaking underneath her as she searches for balance when she lands. 

“I’m in!” she calls up before promptly sneezing. 

Rose and Jack burst out laughing, and she hides her face with her sleeves, willing her nose to settle as she feels another coming on from the dust tickling the back of her throat. Rose is next, her long legs dangling down and much closer to the ground than Lena’s were. Jack doesn’t help, and Rose drops with no trouble, her stance steady and her movements graceful. 

“Guess I didn’t earn those pole vaulting trophies for nothing,” Rose says when she sees Lena staring with admiration, her nose still buried in her sleeve. Rose starts smiling again when Lena wraps her in a half-hug, and they examine the basement together. 

The concrete floor is wet, circled with orange rings of rust and its sheen opalescent with oil. When Lena moves her hand, she smells the traces of mould beyond the dust, the damp mildew in the air. Large stacks of chairs, dozens of them towering toward the ceiling, fill an entire corner, and an old metal furnace occupies another, its fires long since extinguished. Spiderwebs with the wispy bodies of old, dead moths stretch between the wood beams above in intersecting trails, thick like frayed gauze, and shadow greets them from the edges of where the light leaks in from the window, darkening the furthest reaches of the basement, trapping them in a small illuminated box with sinister surprises awaiting. There's a wooden set of stairs leading to the first floor, the door slightly ajar and inviting them into the black beyond. 

"Bags are coming next." Jack's holding Lena's backpack through the opening, shaking it slightly. She rushes to take it, shouldering his and Rose's, too, as he slips down. He's taller than Rose and it doesn't take much at all to come through once he adjusts his shoulders. He brushes the dirt from his chest, appraising the basement with his head cocked to the side. "Same as I remember," he mumbles, taking his bag from Lena and digging inside until he finds a flashlight. 

"So you've been here before?" Rose asks, following suit and pulling out her own when she takes her bag from Lena. 

He lifts one shoulder, shrugging. "Something like that." 

Lena takes it as vindication. Of course, that’s how he knows about the house. He’s visited before. She imagines he must’ve been excited to show his new friends since he was starting at a different school. She feels something bright grow in her chest at the thought of them being friends, that Jack’s taking the time to show her something important to him, something special. 

"You're being evasive," Rose says, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. Unease closes Lena’s throat, and she looks helplessly between them. All she can do is put an arm on Rose’s elbow, but she ignores Lena. 

Jack grins. "Am I?" 

"Fucking dumbass white boy." Lena’s never seen Rose so furious, this kind of hate that transforms her face. She looks like she’s ready to spit venom. “Must be used to getting what you want, huh?” She moves closer to him, her knuckles paling around her flashlight, and Lena’s afraid she’s going to club him with it. Lena’s paralyzed, watching the exchange with fear. “Don’t push me, blondie. Don’t even _think_ of fucking with Lena, or I’ll show you what nasty _really_ means.” With a stare that would’ve made Lena’s toes curl, Rose heads for the stairs, taking her by the hand to drag her along. It feels like a betrayal, but Lena pulls away, wishing very much that she could go back and change things, say something different so this wouldn’t have happened. 

"Rose, just… just hang on for a second—" 

She shrinks under Rose’s gaze, and her words curl back onto her tongue. Rose glances between her and Jack, and the anger she sees is enough to leave her eyes burning. "Be up here in five, Lena." 

Before she can say anything else, Rose is up the stairs and gone, the swinging beam of her flashlight and the aching groans disturbing the layers of dust settled into the floorboards above the only signs she has of her, the rest swallowed by the dark. Jack doesn’t say anything, and Lena doesn’t know how to explain what happened. She stays quiet, her voice retreating inside to where she can’t reach it. She’s cold again, her arms shivering as she lowers her bag to the ground. 

_It’ll be fine, it’ll all be okay,_ she thinks. But, just like last night, she doesn’t know if this will be true, either. 

She takes her time digging through her bag for her camera, expecting Jack to leave her behind. He surprises her by staying, his weight shifting behind her. She lets her mind slip away, her eyes caught by how specks of dust dance through the light, lazily swaying back and forth to a beat she can’t hear. The champagne sun bathes the concrete, soft as a sheer cotton blanket, and the edges of shadow aren’t as sharp as she thought they were. Their edges are rigid, bumpy like a silhouette of a mountain range, showing the dips and bubbles on the floor. It reminds her of pictures she’s seen of the moon, the _Mare Tranquillitatis_ , Sea of Tranquility. Basins that look like shallow craters from earth, the dark valleys and shining, silver plains. It’s like staring at the night sky, seeing it naked for the first time without the halo of orange that permeates the atmosphere, blocking all the stars from view. And it’s then that her eyes catch something new. There’s a crack in the wall, starting just where the light can’t reach. It’s deep, and growing from within it is a small cluster of dandelions. The stems wrap around what used to be an old washing board, their roots exposed as they move ever so slowly from the dirt to the splintered oak wood. They must’ve just sprouted, for their candy yellow flowers try to luminate the dark like fading bulbs, their jagged leaves stretching toward the warm promise of the sun’s rays. 

"What're you doing?" 

His voice is distant, a low rasp in her ear. With effort, she takes her eyes away from the dandelions, her heart beating faster when she sees he’s crouched beside her. 

She clears her throat, shifts to the side to give him room. "Oh, just… This caught my eye." She points to the flowers, her attention taken again by them. "They're pretty, aren't they?" 

He chuckles, dismissive. "What do you see that's so pretty about something rotting? They’re not gonna last," he says harshly. Wringing her hands together, Lena realizes he’s right. The washing board is falling apart, ready to crumble at the slightest disturbance, and yet the dandelions cling to it anyway. "It's garbage. Stuff someone couldn't be bothered to throw in the trash." 

She can feel how close he is, how his broad shoulders almost brush hers. The smell of his cigarettes and something like cedar radiate from his shirt, and underneath is the subdued but sharp scent of sweat. She feels very far away from herself, almost like she’s one of the dancing bits of dust, spiralling around and around. 

"Decay is another form of life." Her voice is quiet, airy. "Everything comes back. It might take longer, but it always comes back, gets reclaimed." She leans forward on her knees, gently brushing the dandelion stalks, the tips of the lemon petals. Some of the stalks grow through the wood, finding their way past the cracks and crevices on to the other side, claiming it as its own. "Just like this. See?" 

Jack reaches forward, and the tips of his fingers linger on the back of her hand. They sear her skin, but she doesn’t pull away. It’s like having her hand on a warming pot on the stove, feeling the heat build before it's hot enough to mark her skin. She likes it when he touches her. 

"It breaks down, but it's turned into something new,” she continues, “nothing's ever really gone, it's just… Something doesn't come from nothing, right? We learn that in science class. Everything around us will become something else.” She draws her hand away, smiling as the sun shifts just enough to brush the tips of the leaves, and she can almost see it furl with new life underneath its gentle warmth. “Maybe I'll be a bed of flowers when I die, or be a small part of a new tree.” She’s lost in the light, the thoughts pouring from her while her safeguards sleep. “My house will be a home to a hundred different animals and a thousand different plants. Someone else will wear my clothes, use my camera." 

She wonders how tall the dandelions will grow, if more will join its quest, if, one day, the entire basement will be covered and become some secret garden. How many others would know about it? Would it be something just for her and Jack, their own invisible string tying them together? She wonders if they’ll come back to visit, to see how much has grown, if the walls will be covered in moss and if grass shoots through the cement, the ground once again soft. 

"It's comforting, in a way. Reassuring. A little piece of us lives on, and we leave marks no one else can read. Our own language only we remember." The world is silent. She really is floating, out of body. Nothing weighs her down. Nothing hurts. 

_Why can’t it always be like this?_

She feels the damp air caress her skin, gently brush her lashes, the dust settling on her nose. She stares so long her eyes water, and she blinks. Her cheeks burn when her gaze comes back into focus to find Jack unabashedly staring at her. His eyes have caught the light, too. They're glowing shards of amber, and, if she looks closely, she finds little hints of green in them. She can't read what he's thinking, but she assumes it's what the others think when she goes on for too long, that she's speaking nonsense and should've stayed quiet several minutes ago. 

"S-Sorry, I'm rambling again." She looks away and stands, biting hard on her bottom lip. "If I…" she pulls on a lock of hair hard enough to sting her scalp, "It's okay if you tell me to stop talking. I… I won't be offended or anything." 

When Jack says nothing, she sneaks a glance at him. He's still crouched on the floor, looking at her with what she almost mistakes as wonder. "No… it's not that." Jack stands, and he's so close to her. Close enough for her to rest her hand on his chest if she wanted. Close enough to count his freckles dotting his cheeks, trailing down his nose. The smell of cedar is strong. It's what she imagines it'd be like to walk in a forest before it rains, the wood smokey and parched. For a second, she thinks he's going to reach up and touch her hair, touch her skin. But his hands stay at his sides, and he cocks his head, looking at her in a way that sets her blood ablaze. "I don't think I've met anyone like you, Lena." 

She doesn't think that can be true. Surely he's met a dozen people more interesting than her. This is another instance where words fail her, but she allows herself to stare at him for a moment, and her sense leaves, overwhelmed by the heat, by the rushing in her ears, by her heart pumping too fast. “You… you’re really warm.”

Her eyes widen and she wants to slap a hand over her mouth. _What's wrong with me?_ She didn't mean to say that aloud. Her mouth shuts tight, everything coming to a halt in her veins, solid ice expanding in her chest. She almost clamps her tongue between her teeth, horrified. 

“Yeah?” He laughs, a rumble in his chest that she almost feels in hers, his grin broad and showing his dimples. He’s amused, but there’s something else there, too. Something she doesn’t know how to name. 

“Sorry! That—that was a weird thing to say—I'm sorry—”

"Hey," he leans in close, his face eclipsing her world, his curls dangerously close to brushing against her forehead, and she does her best not to step away, "it's okay," he murmurs. 

Lena doesn't mean to, but unbidden visions of what could happen next flood her mind, of what this could be. She doesn’t even know if she wants it, but she wonders what it would feel like to have his fingers touch her lips, for her head to rest against his shoulder. She warms from the top of her scalp to the tips of her toes, the heat returning, thawing her. 

“U-Um, I—”

"What's taking so long?" Rose shouts, the house creaking and groaning until she's standing at the top of the stairs. "I swear to Christ—" 

"Coming in a minute!" Lena calls up, the spell between her and Jack broken, and she remembers why they're here at all. "Just need a couple more pictures!" She turns to Jack, smiling softly, hoping with everything she has he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Meet you up there?" 

He chuckles through his nose and nods, his eyes lingering for a moment before he takes the stairs, two at a time, and Lena is alone in the basement. She doesn't want to keep Rose waiting, but she doesn't want to rush either. She feels confused, why she felt that way, why she can’t think right when he’s around. Time to think is good, time to breathe. She spends more time with the flowers, finding the right angle and adjusting the settings so the light comes through the way she wants, and she finds a nest of webs in the beams above her head with a spider inside, looking at her curiously with its many eyes, and she focuses on a single strand while she blurs out the rest. She could be in the basement for hours and still find new things to photograph, could be here in the quiet dark until the sun went down. 

"Lena?" Rose calls. 

But not everything she wants can last forever. 

"Coming!" 

She comforts herself with the thought that they'll be coming back through again before they leave, that there's still a whole house to explore. Pulling out her own flashlight, she finds Jack and Rose in the kitchen, studiously avoiding one another. Most of the cupboards are ripped open and half-torn apart, the counter sunken in the middle and splintered. The floor tiles, which would've been a beautiful mosaic once, are cracked and broken with some sections completely bare to reveal the rotting wood floors beneath. There's a door to the right hanging onto its frame by a single hinge, a dark stained wood that contrasts with the light floral wallpaper peeling from the walls like blistered skin. Despite Jack and Rose looking off in different directions, each ignoring the other, Lena lets her excitement build again, her energy surge. 

"Have you been over here yet?" she asks, gesturing to the door. 

"Yeah, a little." Rose looks at Jack, her eyes narrowed. “Didn’t want to go too far off.” 

Lena steps carefully, watching where she places her feet, and makes her way to the door, slipping past without disturbing it, and Rose follows close behind. "Careful where you step," Jack says, dodging a hole in the floor to come up beside Lena, "the place is old and most of the floor's rotted." 

Lena and Rose nod, and she's happy to see Rose more taken with the house, her eyes wide with curiosity. The house feels bigger from the inside, separated into rooms that spill into one another in a long chain, looping back around to take them where they started. Light peeks through the bricked windows; slivers bleed onto tables and musty carpets. There's a room just for eating with a big table meant to seat at least a dozen people, the chandelier above it made of brilliant crystal and ornate gold that still catches the beams of their flashlights and holds it to itself, clinging to the ceiling by a few wires and two screws. The curtains are made of sheer lace, moth-eaten and torn, elaborately patterned with ivory flowers, threads thin like spun cream. She can imagine what they would’ve looked like with the sunlight filtering through, how they would give the sea of green across the street a new, delicate pattern, like a double-exposed photograph. 

A grand wooden staircase takes up much of the main entry, its carpet faded and completely worn through in some spots, the wood wet and water-logged. Past the obvious decomposition, Lena can see what the house used to be, see the life that used to exist transformed into something new. She can see what she told Jack in the basement, that there’s new existence here, a different kind of beauty. She follows behind Rose and Jack, not hearing the former’s ill-hidden barbs or the latter’s sly answers, the condescending undercurrent. Her lens follows the beams of their flashlights, minding the sharp edges of the door frames, the old china cabinets missing their dishes, the grandfather clocks with their insides gutted and spilled onto the floor. She’s not sure how the photos will turn out, she doesn’t know if she’s done much in an environment as ill-lit as this, but she’s certain Mr. Nakamura will like what she’s done, that he won’t regret helping her so much. 

The longer they’re in the house, the warmer Lena becomes. She stops for a moment to take off her jacket and one of her sweaters, gently placing her camera beside her feet. The thick wool itches against her skin, coarse and wiry, clinging to what it can—her hair, her back, the shirt underneath. Her sweater’s almost over her head, but it sticks to the second one, pulling both up to expose her lower back. 

“Dang it—”

She’s struggling to get her arms out of the first one to pull down the other, turning in place and desperately trying not to expose any more skin or, God forbid, her bra. Just when she’s about to call for her, Rose tugs on the other sweater, pulling it down as Lena manages to get the thicker one over her head. Her hair is a staticy mess, and she turns to thank Rose for coming to her rescue. 

But it isn’t Rose who’s standing behind her, who has their hand still clutching the hem of her shirt, their knuckles close to brushing the base of her spine. It’s Jack. 

“Looked like you were having trouble,” he says as Lena stutters, trying to find a way to talk through her embarrassment. How much did he see, how long was he standing there? One brow rises, his gaze trailing from her throat to her eyes. “You alright?” 

Her mouth opens and shuts, lips pressed tightly together. She tries to find it in herself to laugh, but she’s nervous, her skin pulsing, and she steps back until he lets go of her shirt. “Th-Thanks.” 

She’s too flustered to smile, too worried about how far up he saw. She wants to reach back and touch the scars marking her skin, feel if they’re less prominent than before, if they’ve sunken in and smoothed. She wants to convince herself he saw nothing. Rose isn't behind him, and she turns away, looking in one of the three sitting areas they’ve encountered on the main floor alone. Her ears are full from the blood rushing to her cheeks, the world taking on a new, altered angle—but she’s not peering through her viewfinder, she just feels the weight of his gaze, the heat at her back that she can’t tell if it’s real or imagined. Pulling back her hair, she twists it into a high ponytail, wrapping the tie around it twice before it threatens to snap. He’s still behind her, and she tries to pretend he isn’t, that she isn't overwhelmed just by having him close. 

"What's this?" Jack asks. She feels the brush of his fingers on her bare nape, sliding between the bumps of her vertebrae, and she shivers. "Who did that to you?" 

She flinches without meaning to at the sound of his voice, how she can feel his breath hitting her skin, but he doesn't move his hand. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he presses his thumb into what must be a bruise; she hisses. "Nothing. No one." Lena moves out of his reach, pulling her hair back down in place as shame pinches her skin, burning her, the heat not feeling at all pleasant like it did downstairs. 

"Who did that to you?" he repeats, his eyes darkening. She doesn’t see shards of amber anymore but smooth sheets of obsidian, blown wide in the shadows of the house. Her breathing quickens.

“It’s nothing. I… I sleep weird sometimes. I should—I should look into getting better pillows, huh?” Lena’s never been a good liar, but she doesn’t want to tell Jack about her dad, what he does. He must’ve squeezed harder than she thought last night, hard enough for it to colour her brown skin. With effort, she swallows. "It's okay, Jack. Really." She smiles but knows it's not convincing, but she keeps her hand clamped to the back of her neck, grabbing her camera and bag and nearly running right into Rose. 

“Lena, check this out, there’s a—” She stops when she looks at Lena’s face, and her expression hardens when she sees Jack behind her. “What did you do?” she bites, stepping forward with her hands clenched into tight fists. 

“No—he didn’t do anything.” Lena holds her back, still keeping one hand on her neck, afraid Rose will see it, too. She doesn’t think she can lie to them both. “I’m… I’m gonna check out upstairs, okay?” 

She can’t tell if she’s still smiling, but it doesn’t matter, she needs to be alone. The stairs groan like they’re threatening to give out under her feet, shouting their protests as she clears one landing and starts the next. Even that isn’t enough to cover how Jack’s voice carries through the house behind her, like he’s some spectre brought to life, whispering from the walls, under doors. 

“Who’s leaving bruises on her?” 

This is the first time Lena wants Rose to tell him it’s not his business. She feels awful, mean, but she wishes for it anyway. Her lip trembles when she hears Rose sigh. 

"Her dad," Rose says quietly. "Her dad did it." 

The beam of her flashlight stays pointed at her feet, her arms unable to raise it any higher, her camera clutched uselessly in her other hand. She's at the top of the second floor, but she doesn't have the courage to move forward herself, to peek past the dark curtain, see if the black shapes are the remnants of the old inhabitants or old furniture. She's paralyzed, muscles seized by some unknown current as her fingers dig into her neck, angry that her own skin betrays her so often. Lena wanted to be alone, but now she can't stand it. Her ears ring, a hundred buried feelings become too loud, pressing her heart against her ribs until she thinks they might break. 

She recognizes the hand on her shoulder, the thin fingers, the soft scratch of long nails. It's instantly soothing, having her near. In the musty decay, Rose smells like strawberries and vanilla, and Lena takes a big breath, holding it in her lungs, before letting it go. 

"You know you can stay with us whenever you need to, right?" Rose says, her voice just barely above a whisper. Lena's nodding before she realizes Rose can't see her. 

"It's… it's not a big deal. He just… he came home early and I…" She doesn't want to say that she should've been back earlier, too; she doesn't want to put that on Rose, make her feel bad because she begged Lena to stay for another round of bowling. "I'm alright. I promise." 

It's true. Lena's been through worse. Rose is the one who bandaged up her back after the last time, made sure it didn't get infected. She doesn't need another reason to worry, not over her. A few bruises are nothing, it's the shame of having other people see them that hurts. She doesn't want people to feel sorry for her, to pad around because they think she'll break. Especially not Rose. Not Jack, one of the few people who won't have heard the rumours yet, and she doesn’t want him to have a reason to believe them. 

"C'mon, there's still more to see," Lena says. It's easier to sound bright and cheerful when no one can see her face, and she swings up her flashlight to illuminate a long hall ahead of them. All the doors are closed, and there are no cracks in the bricks for the light to crawl through. Her throat feels thick, but she takes a deep breath before taking the last step. 

The first thing she hears is how the wood creaks, how the whole house seems to groan under her weight, summoning up a bellow to voice its displeasure. She hears nothing else, only feels the whoosh of air leaving her lungs. Her stomach climbs up her throat. Her spine cracks against something hard. 

" _Lena!_ " 

It's difficult to breathe. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of black and white, like she's trapped inside a diamond. Her ribs ache, she can't draw in air, and she struggles to move onto her side. She thinks she hears someone screaming. 

"Lena, answer me, please!" 

She blinks, holding up a hand to keep the beam of light from blinding her. She realizes she fell—fell a long way judging from the way the beam broadens and fades before reaching her. Her voice croaks when she tries to summon it, like she's full of dust. 

"Hey, shortie, you okay?" 

The voice is deeper, resonating down to where she lies. It hurts, but she manages to sit up. Her flashlight is missing, but her camera is tucked against her chest. Panic winds her a second time. There isn't enough light—not enough to tell if she broke her camera. What if she landed on it? What if it's broken and she can’t fix it? How will she afford a new one, what will she tell Mr. Makamura? 

But then they steady their beams above her and she sees her camera's alright. It's in one piece, albeit dirtier than before. She'll have to get the special cleaning kit from the lab and gently get the dust off on Monday, but— 

"Shortie?" he calls again. Usually, she doesn't like nicknames based on her height, but Lena finds she doesn't mind when it's coming from Jack. 

"My camera's fine!" she shouts up, her voice a hoarse rasp. She's sure she's grinning like a madwoman, but she's too relieved to care. 

"That is… not what I asked," she hears him mumble, the sound amplified from the pit she accidentally made. 

Her arms shake and give out, and she's flat on her back again, looking up at Jack and Rose as they deliberate how to best get her up without having any rope. An idea strikes her. It's _perfect_ down here. Her assignment is to experiment with framing the picture, and, from down here, the gap she fell through acts as the perfect frame for their silhouettes, their blurry movements and erratic light. Raising her camera to her eye, hoping nothing is really wrong with it, she starts taking their photo. 

"Are you seriously taking _pictures_ right now? I swear to _God—_ " Rose sounds ready to throttle Lena, and she puts down her camera to see Jack slipping through the opening, hanging onto the edge and placing all his weight on his forearms. 

"I'm coming down to give you a boost, move over." 

Lena nods, remembering too late he can't see her, and hisses when her ankle and ribs throb when she moves. She's about to shout that he's clear to jump down when something small runs past her hand with a squeak. Lena screams, jolting back and hurting her ankle more. 

“Th-There’s rats down here! _Jack!—”_

He's saying something, but she's too terrified to hear it. Splinters shoot into her palms, close to her nails, and she tries moving where it doesn't hurt, where the rat can't bite her, claw her eyes. She's almost hysterical by the time Jack grips her biceps, holding her in place.

“Lena. _Lena._ ” She can't see him, frantically turning and her skin crawling with the terrifying notion that spiders are inside her shirt, worms crawling up her pant legs. He shakes her once, his fingers digging in, and stays close, his hot breath fanning against her cheeks. “I got you, alright?”

It still hurts to breathe, her chest aching with the effort of it, and she's embarrassed that she's so close to crying, but she stares for a moment, waiting to see if he'll disappear. He doesn't. Jack stays where he is, calm and steady. His grips on her arms loosen, and she nods. He's patient, helping her up, taking her weight when she yelps after putting pressure on her ankle. Getting back up is the tricky part. She has no idea where she's landed, only that it's blocked off from everything else, and she can't keep herself from trembling when Jack has to lift her up, brace her with his hands on the back of her thighs as she takes Rose's hand to pull her up the rest of the way. Lena had fallen through where the floor had completely soaked through with water, the wood becoming nothing more than sawdust held together by shoddy glue. By the time Rose helps Jack climb up and all three rest against the wall panting, Lena's ready for a very long nap. 

“Maybe that’s enough excitement for one day, hmm?” Jack says, wiping his dirt-covered forehead with his sleeve. He laughs, and it's bright and mirthful, almost like music. 

Lena's exhausted and absolutely _mortified_ to say anything, but she feels like the whole morning was worth it when Rose laughs, too. It's her real laugh, the one Lena loves. “First fucking sensible thing you’ve said all day, blondie.” 

* * *

_Who came up with the rule that you have to dress up for Halloween?_ Lena thinks as she appraises herself in the mirror, keeping her weight on her left foot and not her right. 

The dress is silky against her skin and barely reaches her mid-thigh. Well, perhaps calling it a dress is generous. Rose found it in the lingerie section of Value Village last night, declared it 'perfect' and insisted to Lena that she had a vision. It's red like old blood, bordered with black lace and tiny spaghetti straps. The plunge is deeper than she'd like, showing the edges of her black Wonderbra (which she didn't want either, even if it does make the little she has in the way of breasts look bigger than they ever have before). She's glad she has a shawl at least, something to cover her back and wrap herself in and Taniel’s long black gloves that go up to her elbow. Going as a 1920s flapper is better than the ‘sexy devil’ costume that was left on the bare Halloween rack, a two-piece ensemble completed with a crimson crop top, mini skirt fluffed with black taffeta, and an extendable pitchfork. 

It would've been better if they'd gone on Saturday after exploring the house, she might’ve been able to dress up as a fairy or maybe Posh Spice, but their plans to go to the local Salvation Army were thrown out the window when it turned out Lena rolled her ankle and bruised her ribs after falling through the floor. Jack wanted to help her get home, something that warmed Lena and had Rose react in a way she didn’t expect after he helped her so much—with hostility and distrust. Rose didn’t want him knowing where she lives and insisted Lena stay with her until she felt better, which turned almost into the entire week. Jack still walked them through the park, and Lena hoped Rose would hate him a little less after that. 

It didn't happen, but she can keep hoping for her to come around.

Jack only made it to class twice in the last week, and Lena was glad for the opportunity to talk to him alone. She knows Rose would be mad if she knew, but Lena invited him to come to the party tonight. He stared at her for a while, gauging her earnesty, and raised a brow before he said maybe, if he found time for it. She doesn't know how Rose will take it if she finds out. Isn't the point of parties to see your friends, to have fun? Jack helped her, he's been kind. Why wouldn't she want to know him better? She doesn't see what makes Rose upset and, perhaps naïvely, hopes they'll become friends, too, if they spend more time together. 

_She just has to see what I do,_ she thinks, adjusting her wandering dress from going too far up her thighs. 

“I regret this so much,” Lena grumbles, wiping under her eye to remove the smudged mascara. 

“Why? You look great, so sit your skinny ass down before I fry your ear with this,” Rose says, holding up her curling iron for emphasis. Lena jerks away, causing her hair to catch inside of the hinge and pull painfully. 

“Ow!”

Rose presses her fingers against Lena’s scalp, cringing and mouthing ‘sorry’ as she smooths her hair back. “Not on _purpose,_ but if you don’t stop wriggling around, it’s gonna get messy.” 

“Okay, okay…” 

She sits silently, letting Rose treat her like a doll, her head bobbing back and forth with the gentle tugs on her hair. Rose’s hands are quick, braiding a large chunk of hair at her nape and pinning it to the back of her skull. She doesn’t really understand what she’s doing, curling chunks of her hair and twisting them in on themselves and pinning them to her head. After twenty minutes, Rose sculpts the curls into waves and applies so much hairspray that Lena starts to choke, the air thick and tacky with it, coating her lips and tongue in sharp and bitter glue. Apart from Rose, no one’s taught her how to work with her own hair. She prefers to leave it natural, letting it air dry before she goes to sleep, but she lets Rose experiment, one of her mom’s many hairstyling books as her guide. It’s fun, even when Rose gets something wrong, and Lena likes the feeling of Rose’s fingers in her hair, brushing against her scalp, the shiver it elicits up her spine. 

It’s almost 9:30 by the time Rose finishes, teasing and backcombing the loose curls she’s made and securing them behind her head. Lena almost doesn’t recognize herself, not with all the heavy eye makeup and her hair in a faux bob, fake jewelry in the form of knock-off pearl necklaces and large rings and clip-on earrings, looking like she’s closer to twenty than sixteen. 

She wonders if she looks like her mom, if her dad would love her more if she didn't. 

“Djamal’s gonna be here in five and then we’re set to go,” Rose says excitedly. It's infectious, and she allows herself to bend to the energy, to Rose's soul shining so bright. 

Wrapping her arms around Lena from behind, she kisses her quickly on the cheek, her lips soft and warm. She spins off; her dress dances around her legs. She looks beautiful, taller for the length of it and how it hangs on her frame, how it hugs the sharp swell of her hips and the soft lines of her waist, the sleeves loose and wide with a large slit going up her thigh. It’s her mom’s from the 70s, early spring sky blue, her locs braided on one side of her head and falling over her shoulder on the other in a cascade of black, silver and gold. She’s smiling and happy, gold bronzer winging from her cheekbones to her temples. To Lena, Rose is land and sky come together, her dark skin wet earth, her body the sea, golden as the sun and the silver glimmers for the crescent moon. Lena wishes she had her camera with her.

“We aren’t staying too late, right?” Lena asks, eyes lost in how the fabric catches the light in Rose’s room, all the strings of golden bulbs that make up her headboard creating a wall of radiant luminance. 

Rose stops spinning, her grin broad. “We’ll have you home before midnight, Cinderella. Don’t you worry.” 

They laugh and tease one another until Taniel comes in, looking at them both fondly and telling them they’re beautiful. She’s shorter than Rose, but they share the same face, the same open kindness. Her hair is a wild bunch of tight loops with streaks of red and gold that frames her face. After four children and working six days a week at Amara’s Beauty Salon, it’s taken its toll on her. Lena swears that she looks smaller every time she comes over, a little more chipped away, and yet she always finds more in her to give. Lena loves her like a mother, grateful for both Rose and her Taniel’s generosity, but underneath the love is a viscous current of guilt, the knowledge that she can never pay them back for what they do for her, for how much they care. She’s telling them to be safe and back before 1AM before Djamal bursts in, all rambunctious energy and swagger. 

"What's up, ladies?" he sings, looking at them over his sunglasses and wiggling an eyebrow. Rose rolls her eyes but she’s trying not to smile. 

"Get outta here," she says, waving him off as she blows past him. Lena follows close behind, smiling apologetically. 

"No comment on my costume?" he says, pulling at his oversized sweater as he trails after them. It’s a colourful mess of vertical stripes with hues ranging from forest green to electric blue, like a primary coloured palette wept down his shirt. He’s wearing an L.A. Roots hat, covering his high-top, and his pants are baggy. He’s good-looking—tall and broad—and well-liked. Charming, too. 

“Hey, watch the pictures!” Taniel calls from the other end of the hall when Djamal tries to squeeze past Lena to catch up with Rose. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Williams—my bad.” 

The hall’s narrow and jam-packed with frames of family photos and art from Rose’s little brothers. The house, like almost everything in their neighbourhood, is in dire need of renovations—with paisley patterns in neon orange and mustard yellow tiles in the kitchen and brown wood panelling almost everywhere else, it doesn’t hide the water damage seeping through the walls, rotting the drywall. Getting a landlord to fix anything here is like asking God to bring you a glass of water. You’re better off getting it yourself. 

"Steve Urkel?" she guesses, giving a once-over before pulling on her jacket. 

"Ha. Ha. Very funny, Rose." 

Lena follows her lead, trying to wear her denim jacket in a way that doesn’t make her shawl bunch up around her shoulders or fall down her back. It doesn’t work well, becoming a tight knot that presses against her ribs in a way that aches. Her shoes are too tight, but she wears them anyway. They’re Taniel’s and fit her ‘look’, a black pair of Mary Jane’s with a two-inch heel, but she hopes she won’t have to walk in them for long, both unused to the height and the twinge in her ankle. 

"Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch?" Rose guesses again. Only Lena sees how her smile turns sly. 

"Now you're just being mean." Djamal shakes his head, one hand over his heart. 

This time Rose can’t help but giggle. 

With the door shut behind them, the moths fluttering over their heads, bludgeoning themselves against the glass floodlight, they head down the ill-lit street. It rained earlier in the day, the gutters water choked and the pavement transformed into a dark mirror, and the kids who'd come knocking on the doors in their costumes, little Ghostbusters and princesses and superheroes, are long gone. Especially on Halloween, it's dangerous to stay out after the sun goes down. Cool mist forms in front of her face as they walk, and she quickly falls behind. 

"Don't you be grabbing your crotch or you can go alone," Rose says, holding up the hem of her dress as she avoids a puddle, bounding over it in her heels while Lena walks through the mud. 

"That was _one time!"_ Djamal interjects, his shoulder brushing Rose’s. He looks her up and down, “Who’re you supposed to be, anyway?” 

She scoffs. “Pat Cleveland. Obviously.” 

“Yeah. _Obviously.”_

They keep talking the whole way, caught up in one another. Lena wonders if they really are dating but Rose just doesn’t want to tell her yet. _No._ She shakes her head. Rose would’ve told her. College and going to med school are her priorities, doing everything she can to get scholarships to pay her way. It doesn’t happen often at their school, but Rose is determined—the hardest worker she knows, and the smartest, too—and Lena needs both hands to count how many times Rose has said no boy will get in the way of that. _They’re just friends. She’d tell me if something changed._

Lena feels certainty in that, and she doesn’t allow herself to think of it again. 

Riley Cooper doesn’t live far, just a few streets down and to the left. He’s a junior, but he failed seventh grade twice, which means he’s eighteen and shares a house with his friends. He used to play football until they kicked him off the team after going to juvie one summer. Some rumours say it’s because he was selling drugs, others because he ran someone over. Riley never confirms or denies them, smiling and leaning into it, changing the details with every retelling, each more salacious than the last. Lena doesn’t like to feel harshly of anyone, but if she did, Riley would be one of the few on the list. 

They hear the house before they see it. Riley’s place isn’t very large. Detached, two-storeys, wood planks rotting off the exterior walls, shutters half-torn and paint chipped, the lawn water-starved and brown. It doesn’t look like a nice place to live to Lena, but can’t say much—her apartment isn’t very nice either. Beer bottles and cigarette butts line the path to the front door. The music’s booming, heavy bass R&B, and strange silhouette’s flit back and forth in front of the window like a lighthouse’s beacon, illuminating the hazards ahead before blinking, a rhythmic pattern that hypnotizes. Her skin feels stiff, like she’s forgotten how to smile, how to move her arms right. What is she meant to do with her hands? Hug herself, put them in her pockets, let them swing at her sides? She doesn’t remember it being this difficult before. Before Lena can ask if they can spend the night at Rose’s and watch _Hocus Pocus_ and eat candy from the corner store next to her house, but Rose already has the door open and there’s no going back. 

"Ay, you came!" It’s Eric. Why did it have to be Eric? He’s wearing a Gotham Rogues football jersey and helmet as a costume, stripes of black greasepaint under his eyes. He looks Lena up and down, raising his red Solo cup and sloshing warm beer all over his hand. "Lookin' good, Miss Eyebrows. You should put this kind of effort in more often, might make someone wanna actually—" 

Rose shoves him to the side, her disgust palpable. "Shut up, Eric, and go find one of your boyfriend's to blow." 

"So _hostile_ —"

Lena is eager to leave Eric behind, following Rose and shivering when she’s met with a wall of damp heat and sweat. There are only a few faces she recognizes among at least forty others in the throbbing dark. It’s an alive thing, the air—a flying serpent coasting through the room, blocking faces and the light before revealing them again, changed and grotesque. Girls dressed up as cats and witches, their skirts riding high and breasts spilling out of their tops, lean against walls and look up at the boys beside them, their eyes wild and glassy, thick-rimmed with black makeup smudged down their cheeks. Lena’s cheeks burn looking at them. Her costume doesn’t match theirs at all. No one looks like Rose, either—but she stands apart from the crowd, all her own. 

_Why can’t I be like that?_ she thinks. She stands taller, consciously keeping her chin high, even if she feels like buckling under the weight of the idea that eyes are on her, that they’re stripping her bare. 

There’s a sea of impersonators, costumes ranging from athletes to pop icons, but the most common one is only familiar to Lena because she saw the posters for the movie. Ghostface. The mask worn by the serial killers in _Scream._ She was too scared to watch it, and the same fear finds her again seeing more than a dozen of them floating from room to room like ghoulish apparitions, with what she hopes are rubber knives in hand. The illusion is only broken when they knock back their drinks without taking off the mask, spilling it everywhere and earning a laugh from their friends. 

"C'mon, let's get some drinks," Rose shouts over the music, her shoulders already swaying to the beat. Her coat’s gone, and Lena shrugs hers off, tossing it with the pile of others, and quickly fixes her shrug to cover her shoulders. 

"Drinks?" she shouts back, struggling to squeeze past a boy dressed as a bear and another as Jesus. 

Rose stops, pressing the heel of her hand against her brow. "Shit, that's right. You don't go to these." She mutters something Lena can’t hear under her breath before leading her to the dining room. The table is one of those long kinds she’s seen at church potlucks and there’s a loud group playing beer pong, but beside it is a keg and end table stacked high with bottles of Corona and Bacardi. The smell of beer assaults her nose, more potent than when she’s at home. Rose grabs a bright pink drink and twists off the cap before handing it to Lena. "Just take it slow, don't let one of these morons pressure you into chugging, alright? No more than two, either. You’ll get fucked up too quick."

Lena can barely hear her over the noise, the whooping shouts of the boys beside them after they win a point. _Drink! Drink! Drink!_ they shout, throwing their cups across the room. Her shoulders creep toward her ears, her arms pressed tightly against her sides. She’s waiting for Rose to tell her what to do, to give her direction, but her attention is pulled over Lena’s head. 

"Fuck, Djamal!" she shouts, standing on tip-toe and waving. Djamal is standing in the kitchen, what looks like a cigarette in his hand. A girl’s leaning on his arm, taking the stick and inhaling before passing it back. Rose swears under her breath. "I'll be right back, okay? Try to have some fun, talk to some people!" 

"Wait, Rose—" 

But Rose is gone, swallowed by the groups rushing to dance when Blackstreet and Dr. Dre blares from the subwoofers. So many of them seem to know the lyrics, hips swaying to the rhythm and hands gripping bottles and cups in the air, girls gyrating into the groins of the boys behind them. Lena doesn’t know where to look. She’s seen things like on TV, sure, but never in person. Sweat beads down her neck, following the dips of her spine. Alcohol always makes her dad loosen up. She remembers when he used to only have three beers a night, how he’d laugh with her while they watched movies, when he’d stumble along but hold her hand on the rare occasions he could afford to take her for ice cream in one of the specialty gelato shops in the Diamond District. 

When he was like that, she didn’t think alcohol was so bad. It made him happy instead of sad. Instead of angry. Instead of mean. What changed? Did everything happen because he started drinking more or had she done something that caused it instead? 

_It can’t be so bad if I just have one..._

She brings the bottle to her lips, tipping it back to pour down her throat. It burns like rancid honey, too sugar-sweet—like biting into an overripe peach. But, after the first sip, the rest isn’t so bad. The more she has, the lighter she feels, the heat making her rise and float. Rose said not to have more than two, so why not have them now? 

Her hands slip on the new bottle when she tries to twist off the top, slick with condensation and something sticky. 

"What're you supposed to be?" someone asks, their breath on her ear. 

Her reactions feel slow, delayed. There’s a boy standing next to her, green laurel wrapped around brown sugar curls and his torso almost completely bare. A white bedsheet is wrapped around him in a makeshift toga, what looks like bronzer highlights his chest—Lena isn’t quite sure what it’s meant to accomplish—and Birkenstocks complete the look of a not-so-ancient-Greek. She can hear her father calling him _putsi malaka_ in her head. Whether his eyes are brown or hazel, Lena can’t tell, but he’s smiling at her, showing a straight set of white teeth. She could’ve sworn she was alone before. When did he come along? Maybe she finished her drink faster than she should have. 

"Flapper," she says, trying to keep the slur out of her voice. She doesn’t know if it works. "You know, from the 20s? Like in _The Great Gatsby?"_

"Huh." He blinks once. Lena doesn’t think he understands. "So you're Rose's friend?" Lena nods. That’s how most people know who she is, isn’t it? Because of Rose, being her friend. A foreign thought flits through her head, wondering if anyone would really know her at all if they didn't spend time together. "Yeah, I've seen you around,” he continues. “Don't party often, do you?" 

He’s standing closer than before. His cologne is strong, almost more powerful than the rank scent of beer on his breath. "No, um—not really." The game beside her grows more intense and she barely dodges an elbow to her head, pinned against the table and the people getting refills and the boy in the toga. 

"Let's spice things up for you then."

She’s edging away from him, looking out into the crowd. How long has it been since she left? "Rose is—" 

"Are you gonna wait around and follow her like a lost puppy? C'mon." He taps her elbow, leading her through the crowd towards the set of stairs. “Here." He takes the drink from her hands and twists the top off. It overflows when she takes it, pink foam coating her fingers. The boy looks at her expectantly. Lena takes a large swig of her drink, the sickly sweetness coating her esophagus, a pool of acid in her stomach. "Good girl." He gives her a toothy grin. 

_Where’s Rose?_

It’s warmer as she makes her way into the living room with him. Hot bodies pressed together, sweat running down cheeks coated in paint, pungent in her nose. They’re laughing and singing along to songs she doesn’t know the lyrics to. They pass a couple making out on the couch. The boy has his hand up her shirt, cupping her breast as she straddles him, her skirt bunched around her waist as voyeurs cheer them on. _You’re the man!_ they shout. Something inflates in her chest, pressing down on her underbelly. Her lips part and she’s not sure why. 

“Yeah,” the boy in the toga grabs her arm, “they do that a lot.” 

She tears her eyes away, letting him lead her to the stairs. It’s less crowded, but the carpet’s filthy, caked with Doritos and stained with what she hopes is Coke. He takes a seat, uncaring, and she gingerly sits beside him, hugging the wall as best she can. 

"Oh, I don't smoke," she says when he pulls out something from his toga belt (which looks suspiciously like one that belongs with a bathrobe) and offers it to her. 

He laughs. "It ain't a cigarette.” He sticks it in his mouth and lights it, inhaling twice before offering it again. She recognizes the heady smell of pot. “ Just inhale." 

"I'm… I'm fine." 

"She'll be busy for a while." She senses his eagerness, his frustration. “C'mon. Try it." 

Lena waves it away, hesitant. "I don't really…" 

"Listen. All it does is make you lightheaded. Everything becomes a bit funnier. It'll lighten you up, feel good." He takes another puff, holding it in his lungs, exhaling through his nose. He’s so different from Jack—bulky arms and defined pecs and dark hair on his chest—but with the joint in his mouth, he reminds her of Jack. "Doesn't sound so bad, does it?" 

Rose told her a few times about what it’s like to get high. She said it was like her body went heavy but she was levitating at the same time, weightless. She said sometimes she imagined that she was up in space, the stars racing toward her. It really doesn’t sound so bad. 

"I guess not." 

He smiles and passes it to her. She’s never smoked anything before. It’s slightly wet from his lips. She feels self-conscious with it in her mouth, like she’s forgotten how to inhale properly. Choking the first time, the boy laughs, and she tries again. The smoke pools in her stomach before it accidentally enters her lungs. 

"There ya go. Couple more," he says, rubbing her back in encouragement. She shifts away, her ribs smarting. Not feeling anything other than a little more lightheaded than before, she takes another one and, this time, she doesn’t gag on the taste. "See?"

She waits for a few moments; her brows draw together. "I don't feel anything." 

He inhales again, burning the joint down to the end. "Give it a few minutes," he says as he exhales, talking out of his throat instead of his mouth. 

The lights shrink and grow phosphorescent halos. The walls thrum like a beating heart. To Lena, they’re made of soft buttercream, rippling out in small, creamy waves like a gentle river would lap at the side of a boat. She’s struck with the urge to touch it, to feel it for herself. Her hand’s outstretched, finger hovering. She wonders what's beneath the surface, what the house is hiding, what secrets it wants to tell her. 

"Move over, Nowak." 

The voice is harsh, jarring. She inhales sharply when someone knocks into her, wincing when her ribs hit the edge of the stair behind her. When she looks up, she almost screams. A wraith stands over her, cloaked in black, face pallid white. 

"Go sit somewhere else," the boy in the toga—Nowak?—says. Lena’s eyes stay fixed on the wraith’s face. 

"Not like your girlfriend needs a lot of room.” He reaches up and she flinches, but he pulls back his black hood to reveal a human face. Why is her blood pumping so fast? Why did she say yes to him, to coming at all? Through the alcohol and pot, she recognizes him. It’s Riley in his custom black leather jacket and a Ghostface mask in his bare hands. They’re bruised and swollen, dark purple and deep red at the knuckles. His nose looks like it’s been broken several times and set improperly, his chin broad and dimpled, his eyebrows thick. She doesn’t like how he’s looking at her, how empty his eyes are. They remind her of her dad’s. “Fuck, do you eat anything?" 

Her face burns when she realizes he’s referring to her, how small she is. Her eyes sting. 

"Shut up, Riley," the other boy says. Lena suddenly feels foolish that she didn’t ask for his name before. "You're the host, you're not supposed to be a dick." 

"My house, my rules." He laughs before downing whatever remnants were in his cup. He burps and leans against the wall, appraising her. Uncomfortable memories surface. Ones of her dad at night, before she got the lock for her door. "Speaking of… Yo, girlie.” He nudges her leg with his foot, tearing at her tights and creating a ladder that goes past her knee. “You ever suck cock before?" 

Shame hits her like a blow. Saying nothing, she runs past him, twisting her ankle enough to make her gasp when she trips on the last step. Riley laughs behind her. 

"What the fuck did you say that for? Jesus, you're gross—" 

"I'm fucking _hilarious_ —"

Lena searches the first floor for Rose and Djamal, but more people have somehow poured in. It feels like half the school is here, pressing in until there’s barely space to breathe. But, even then, she doesn’t see Jack. If he’s here, he doesn’t find her. She’s alone, crushed between bodies taller than hers, disoriented and overwhelmed. She needs to sit down. She needs fresh air. 

_I want to go home._

She doesn’t find Rose anywhere, and she can’t weave her way through the crowd. She gives up, settling on finding somewhere to sit. The world superimposes over itself, out of focus. She doesn’t know what happened to her drink. Did she finish it? She thinks she’s on a couch, but how did she get here?

_I think I took too much._

Time melds together, speeds and then rewinds, slows and quickens. Her eyes are so heavy. She’s so tired. No one tries to talk to her. At least, no one she can hear. 

_How long have I been here?_ she wonders. She can’t tell if her eyes are open or closed. 

_"Ooh!"_

It's a collective sound, loud enough that Lena raises her head in confusion. Everything feels heavy, like there’s the world’s chasing its own shadow, overexposed and blurred. 

"You're up, Lena," someone says. They're wearing a Jason mask, she doesn't recognize their voice. 

"I'm… what?" 

They laugh. Her head spins. _Where's Rose?_

"Get up and ride the Cooper train," someone else sniggers. 

The lights are brighter, there are less people—groups congregating and sharing stories and laughing. The music is still too loud, but there are no more dancing throngs, no overspilling energy. She made it to the living room but now she’s part of some circle—a circle Rose and Djamal and Jack aren’t part of. She looks down after someone whistles. There’s a bottle on the coffee table. A bottle that’s pointing at her. She recognizes the person across from her. His mask is in place and his leather jacket’s bigger than she remembers, but it’s Riley. His hands are clad in black gloves, tensed into fists. His head’s cocked in interest. Lena finally understands. She remembers what he said on the stairs. 

"N-No," she says, waving her hands, "I wasn't playing—" 

Someone's in front of her now, dragging her to her feet. Their hands are wet, cold like melting ice cream. She doesn't like how it feels against her skin, but it's like her arms can't move. Her body sways like it’s trapped in a pendulum, at the mercy of gravity and physics she can’t control. It doesn't listen. No one does. 

"Sure you were, c'mon." 

Someone's hand is pressed against her back, and Riley's standing now, impossibly tall—or maybe she's shrunk?—and his mask seems to twist, it's mouth is opening wide like a snake's jaw unhinging, ready to swallow her inch by inch, suffocate her in its damp heat. Pain blooms along her ribs, chest stuttering. 

"B-But—" 

They're directing her to the closet now, the people on the floor and dogpiled on the couch and howling like wolves. Riley is right beside her, a wall of black, a void of nothing.

"You don't have to do anything, just play along," someone says in her ear, barely audible over the thumping bass. 

She doesn't have time to reply, she's in the closet with the door closed by the time she can summon a noise. The music is muffled, banging on the door like it wants to join them. She doesn't know if anyone would hear her if she shouted. There's a dim bulb above her head, shelves stacked high with games like Monopoly and Twister beside her. The room is small, thick with dust and disuse, and Riley is less than a foot away. Panic swells in her throat.

"I don't want to kiss you," she says in a rush, her arms drawn protectively around her chest, her shawl clenched tight in her hands. She knows how rude she sounded, is painfully aware that this is his house, that she could've phrased it better without insulting him. She's afraid—afraid of having him close, afraid of what he said before, afraid of his mask, afraid of how small she feels. 

Riley says nothing. His head is still tilted to the side, static. She tries to find his eyes but only sees the black holes gouged into the white. There are no visible pupils, no coloured flash of irises, no hint of flesh. Just the kind of black that swallows the light, greedy and impenetrable, and stares back without being known. She’s pressed against the shelves when he steps closer, something sharp digs between her ribs, into her bruises. 

"Did you hear me?" she whispers. 

Riley doesn't answer. It’s like she never spoke at all.

There's nowhere to go. His back's to the door, she can't move past him. The walls close in, vibrating like they’re about to come crashing down. They said she didn't have to do anything, right? She doesn’t have to kiss him—that’s what kids do in games like this, isn’t it? Just kiss?

_Then why is he getting closer?_

"I—" 

He runs his gloved thumb over her bottom lip and her voice dies, her eyes wide with shock. The sensation is strange. She can feel the smoothness of the leather, the small, imperfect grooves. Her nerves are a misfiring circuit board, burning and arcing through her spine, rippling out to the tips of her fingers, splaying like webs of lightning across her fluttering eyelids, from her mouth to the root of her tongue, spilling down her esophagus and trapping itself in her stomach. 

_What's he doing?_ She doesn't remember how to breathe, how to move. 

His thumb trails from her lips to her chin, then her throat, pressing down on her erratic pulse. He leans in, sucking her into his vacuity until he's all she sees, all she feels. Her hair moves when he breathes in deep, his hand cupping her neck and sliding over her shoulder, moving her shawl to fall down her arm. She whimpers. 

" _P-Please, wait_ …" she forces out. 

Riley is silent. 

Her arms brace against the hard planes of his chest when he all but crushes her to the shelf, the cool plastic of his mask pressed to her throat. He doesn't even smell like anything, like he really is a wall of nothing. She can only feel him, how he's imprinting himself on her. She isn't sure if it's terror or the drugs keeping her from fighting back, but he pins her in place, his hands trailing down her arms to grip them firmly. There’s power in his fingers. Strength she doesn’t have. This feels worse than kissing, more invasive, huffing in her scent like he means to never forget her, encode her DNA into his. The more she tries to wriggle away, the tighter his hold becomes. 

She's crying without meaning to, holding in sobs when his hands find their way to her back, pulling her against him as he leans over her. It's not until he moves one of the spaghetti straps of her dress that adrenaline spikes in her veins, dosing her with pure fire. He's twice her size, but she brings up a knee and hits him in the groin. It's not a direct hit, but enough to knock the wind out of him and for her to bolt to the closet door, her ankle screaming. She struggles with the knob, her whimpers building to sobs of panic when she can't get it open. 

_C'mon, please, please—_

The door rips open and she stumbles forward. Someone catches her. They're laughing. "Whoa, couldn't make the full time or—" They look over her shoulder, tensing, "What the fuck—" 

Lena doesn't look back. She tears away—she needs to find Rose. There are questions thrown at her back, subdued jeers and laughter, and her eyes burn. She doesn't know where she's going, only that she needs to find Rose so they can go home. Her vision swims. People come in and out of focus. She thinks she might throw up. 

"Rose?" she calls weakly, checking room after room. She's trying to fix her shawl but it's like her fingers are numb, like he took away her sense of touch. She wonders if this is what it's like to feel empty. When something happened to her before, it was always so sharp, like small needles finding a home under her skin. She felt everything. Now, she feels nothing. Nothing at all. "Rose?" 

She finds herself upstairs. More people are congregated here, couples making out in corners and girls passed out on the floor with their shirts hiked up. Her stomach heaves, but she slaps a hand over her mouth. She won’t get sick. _She won’t._

 _“Rose?!”_ she calls, louder this time. 

The door’s she opens lead to bedrooms now, each one dark and occupied. She shuts them quickly, the afterimage of hips thrusting and nails digging into shoulders imprinted on the inside of her eyelids, their moans low in her ears. She doesn’t remember anymore why she wanted to be here. 

It’s when she opens the last door that she finds Rose. She’s in a bed with Djamal. They’re kissing. Her hands are inside his pants. He grips her hips until his knuckles pale. Their chests are pressed together so tight she doesn’t know how they can breathe. Something quiet in Lena breaks, something she didn’t even know she had. Quietly, she closes the door. She stands on the other side, staring at the wood grain, the skater stickers and band posters. Lena knows what Rose means now when she said being high made her feel weightless. She doesn’t feel her feet moving down the stairs, the sharp pull in her ribs or the throbbing in her ankle. 

_I should’ve stayed home._

Fresh air finds her after all. She doesn’t remember finding her way out to the back porch, but she does. The air is cold. Sharp. Biting. Her keys are at Rose’s house and there isn’t a spare. The prospect of waking up her dad when she’s like this is a terrifying one. If he’s even home at all. What would happen when he found out she’d taken drugs? She feels stupid. Profoundly and utterly stupid. 

“Hey.” 

She doesn’t turn. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say the voice sounds like Jack’s. It’s deep and soothing to her ear. Something that feels so familiar. But he isn’t here. He didn’t come. Faintly, she hears someone shouting behind her, demanding to know the whereabouts of something she doesn’t catch—something about shoes or a jacket. 

“Lena?” 

She blinks and Jack’s kneeling in front of her. He’s not dressed up as anything as far as she can tell—just wearing a black pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. She doesn’t know how he isn’t shivering like she is. When she blinks again and he doesn’t disappear, she smiles. It wavers and her lips shake, but she holds it in place. “Jack?” She laughs but it’s stuck in her throat; her eyes water. “I thought you—I thought you weren’t coming.” 

He doesn’t smile back. His face is a mask, smooth and empty. Only his eyes are alight, holding some glimmer she doesn’t recognize. “Why’re you crying?” he asks softly. 

Now she can add embarrassment to the shame she feels tonight. “It’s—just something stupid.” Lena turns from him, hiding her face as she wipes at her eyes and hoping her mascara isn’t a runny mess. “I… I’m being stupid.” She tries to make it into a joke but a sob comes out half-way. She doesn’t want him to see her like this—an overgrown baby, weak. But she can’t control the swell in her throat, the pressure in her head. 

“C’mon.” He stands and extends his hand to her, motioning with his fingers for her to take it. “I’ll walk you home.” 

He’s still not smiling, but his kindness is enough for her to start crying again. Her jacket’s left behind, but what remains of the alcohol in her system leaves her warm. She doesn’t know what she’ll do, hoping she’ll figure it out on the way back to her apartment and that Rose will realize she got home okay, but she’s glad Jack is here, that he came after all. She doesn’t know how she missed him, how she managed to miss so much. 

Their walk is quiet, but he stays beside her the whole time, his arm almost brushing hers. Lena doesn’t see anything really, can’t seem to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. Jack lights a cigarette and smoke billows from his mouth like he’s a fuming dragon, Smaug preparing to guard his treasure hoard. It’s a funny thought, and she giggles until the smoke makes her cough and her eyes burn.

"Smoking isn't good for you, you know," she slurs. It’s difficult to form sentences. The words tangle on her tongue. 

"You don't say. Tragic." He takes another long drag and Lena falls silent. They aren’t far from her apartment now, but she grabs his arm for support when she stumbles, and he helps prop her up before she does a faceplant into the sidewalk. "Are you afraid of me?" 

Lena laughs. It’s a silly question, surely a joke. "Why would I be afraid?" She’s giggling again and can’t make herself stop. She doesn’t really understand it, but she likes how warm Jack is, how the lights above turn into little angels that forge the path ahead. 

"Everyone else is." 

He sounds sad to her. Lena doesn’t want him to be sad.

Lena doesn’t entirely remember the kind of directions she gave Jack, but they’re at the back of her apartment building instead of the front. He’s pulling down the ladder from the fire escape, guiding her to climb and then following close behind. She has to take her shoes off when they stand on the grates—the heel keeps sinking through the holes and threatening to trip her. Falling from this height would _not_ feel nice. It isn’t until they get to the third floor that she clues in he’s going to help her sneak through her window rather than through the front apartment door. _He’s so considerate,_ she thinks, her smile airy. 

Her bedroom window never really locked well, and it only takes Jack a few minutes to jimmy it open and help her inside. 

"Not _everyone,_ " she whispers when she falls onto her mattress, curling on her side and looking up at him as he sits on the edge of her window frame. His brows knit together. “Not… not everyone’s afraid of you,” she clarifies, drawing her shawl more tightly around her. “They just… they don't know you." 

For the first time tonight, Jack smiles. 

"Unlike you." 

"Well… we're friends, aren't we?"

She holds her breath. It feels like such a risky thing to say, an invitation for him to say no. He’s quiet for a long moment. His black eyes never waver. 

"You want to be my friend?" 

Why does his voice feel like velvet against her skin, like sitting out in front of the sun, bathing in its light in the heat of a summer morning? It brings her closer to sleep, and she feels vaguely rude when she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. "Yeah, of course… of course, you're my friend." 

Something warm and soft falls over her, covering most of her face and cushioning the world. She doesn’t feel sick anymore, doesn’t feel out of control. She’s still floating, but now she has something to keep her from blowing away. 

"Yeah. You're my friend, shortie."

The world gets so quiet, like the blanket is muffling that, too. She can’t hear the traffic outside her window, the quiet murmurs of her neighbours. She only remembers Jack’s voice, allows it to erase everything else, bury it with her other hurts. If she lets herself pretend for a little longer, it’s like she never went to the party at all, that everything was an odd dream, and she’s surprised when her mind conjures the idea that someone is smoothing her hair. What a marvellous feeling. What a vivid dream. She hopes she wakes up and none of it was true at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's following along, left comments, and have been so kind with their encouragement. I'm so sorry that I haven't replied to everyone's comments yet - but expect one from me soon! I'm sorry if this chapter's a mess (and it ended up being 16k after all - I'm sooooo sorry!), but I hope you enjoy it anyway.🥺💖


	4. Transfix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've tagged this story pretty thoroughly, but so that there are no triggering surprises, please be aware: there is graphic descriptions of child abuse and the subsequent injuries in the last third of the chapter. You'll find all the Greek translations at the end AN because Jack can't understand what's being said. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank jasminau and dontcareforausername for all of their help, encouragement, and advice with this chapter. I wouldn't have the courage to have written or post this without them! 💖 And thank you, my lovely readers, for all your support and love. I couldn't do this without you!

_It is a condition of monsters that they do not see themselves as such._

Anne Carson, _Autobiography of Red_

* * *

_Fuck snow._

If there’s one season Jack hates the most, it’s winter. He doesn't like how cold it gets, how his fingers freeze and the ground hardens, how it feels like he never has enough layers until he has too fucking many. It's infuriating, a waste of time when he can throw on a shirt and pair of pants in the summer and be just fine. Makes sleeping rough easier when he doesn't have to worry about his goddamn toes snapping off. 

Maybe that's why Lena's annoying him so much today, how excited she is about the first snowfall of the year, the heavens parting and spitting their hellfrost onto the earth. He decides to attribute his agitation to that rather than the pressure he's feeling in his lower belly, the thing that's causing his hands to ball into fists before releasing and his rage to boil to the point he's slightly (and _only_ slightly) concerned he might snap at her, teeth bared. With anyone else it would probably be fine, they'd have a thick enough skin to laugh or tell him to fuck off, but he doesn't feel like apologizing for anything today, putting in the extra effort it takes to mend her bleeding heart. 

"Isn't it pretty?" she asks for what must be the third time, her eyes wide with wonder and quiet excitement. She sticks out her tongue, attempting to catch a snowflake and feel it melt into a tiny puddle like she's ten years old. Her irises seemed darker before, but outside in the snow they look like thick slabs of ice over concrete, all the brighter against her brown skin and dark hair. After losing her jacket at Riley's Halloween party (which was insufficient and shabby on its own), she's replaced it with a spring windbreaker, complete with an 80s style neon zig-zag pattern. It's probably from the thrift shop down her street, it's certainly not new, but she's mended it to look less worn. Despite shivering _constantly_ (something that's tempted him on multiple occasions now to just steal a new one for her so he doesn't have to watch anymore) _,_ she never complains about being cold. Fuck, she never complains about _anything._ That annoys him, too. It seems everything she does grates at him somehow, sets his teeth on edge. 

_Starting to think jerking off is the solution._ Eyes widening at the intrusive thought, he shakes his head, banishing it. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him? Yes, he's a teenage boy and not Saint fucking Paul, but he's better than this. There are _better_ ways to vent all this out. 

Isn't there? 

"Do you think we'll get lots this year? It's always nice when it's a white Christmas—"

"Who knows," he interrupts. It takes everything he has not to roll his eyes. 

Lena is unperturbed, content that he's walking with her around the perimeter of the school. They've hung out more and more since the Halloween party a month ago, but things are moving slower than he wants. Rose and what's-his-face are unofficially dating, and somehow they manage to convince Lena to tag along as a third-wheel whenever they can, which happens to be almost every damn day. But then Lady Fortune decided to smile on him—Rose is gone for the rest of the week in Blüdhaven for some kind of competition. With Christmas break just a week away, he knows Lena's going to have just as much free time as he will. He knows because he asked; she was excited to talk about her aunt coming for dinner and the food she's looking forward to making—a long series of descriptions of her favourite Greek dishes he didn't know but made his stomach growl anyway. She also happily told him Rose has at least half a dozen family members coming to stay with them over the holiday, going as far to list them off even though he stopped listening by then. Rose staying busy will make it hard for her to drag Lena around by her invisible leash. 

And that suits him just fine. 

"Oh, I found another one!" she says, bounding off to go check out her latest find. It's another dumbass assignment for the school paper, but he's glad it's vaguely interesting. Someone's been going around the borough, and who knows where else, leaving riddles in luminescent green spray paint. They range from simple to surprisingly difficult, but he solves most of them eventually. 

He takes his time catching up to Lena; he intends on dragging this out until he can think of a way to ask her without sounding like a complete creep, as if he isn't one already, or give the wrong impression. It's harder than he wants it to be. 

"Huh, what do you think the answer is for this one?" she asks, head tilting to the side. 

He's beside her now, and the wind picks up, carrying the _infernal_ fucking smell of lilac and magnolias with it. Jaw clenching and his muscles tensing like a coiled spring, he steps away from her, closer to the wall under the guise of examining the riddle. This has been a growing problem for him, one he doesn't entirely understand. She just _does_ something to him, and it's only gotten worse since Halloween. Being with Lena has become an exercise in restraint, and he's surprising himself with how much he's held it together. 

Willing himself to get a fucking _grip,_ he begins to read. 

**What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?**

Hand on her chin and her teeth gently biting her bottom lip, Lena concentrates on the riddle. Even that's cute. 

_What happened to getting a goddamn grip, you fucking moron._

"Why don't you take a crack at it first, shortie," he says, turning from her like that'll somehow fix this dilemma he's shoved himself into. _God,_ he needs a cigarette. He wishes he hadn't smoked the last one twenty minutes ago. 

"Hmm… Well, it's small and hangs out in a tree, so it must be a bird, right? But what kind of bird…" She looks around her, at the top of the buildings and the interweaving power lines. Different kinds of shoes, small pink kids ones and a green pair of hightops not too different from his own and another a beat-up pair of Nikes, hang from them like bodies strung up in warning. "A shrike is a predatory bird that's pretty small. That must be it, right?" 

She's looking at him now, he can feel it, but he keeps his eyes trained ahead. He can't help grinning. "Nah, the answer is obviously 'a sparrow with a machine gun'." 

He bursts out laughing at her protests, saying he's being silly and pointing out the implausibilities before pulling out her camera to take a photo. That's one of the entertaining things about her. She's smart, thinks differently from everyone else, makes him laugh when so few can, and yet she's blind to reality—an astute observer coming to the best conclusions about humanity rather than the worst. She takes in the world as it is but finds something to be thought sacred. And _therein_ lies most of his fun: an internal bet with himself about how long it'll take her to figure out he isn't a nice person, he's not here to do anything other than for himself, that he lies through his teeth. He wants to know just how far he can push before she snaps and says, _I've had enough_. It's amusing that she hasn't picked up on anything, and he finds a special kind of demented entertainment watching her come up with excuses and rationales that are nowhere near the truth, seeing them form in real-time before she smiles her doubts away.

"I think I have enough," she says, examining some setting on her camera, "Do you… Would you want to head back to school with me? I'm just going to drop this off in the darkroom and do a couple of things before I head home."

So hesitant, even after spending all this time together. She's still worried that she's asking too much, that he'll suddenly get it in his head that he shouldn't have hung out with her at all. Most of the time it's annoying, too, but right now… 

_Fuck, I'm the biggest idiot._ He grinds his teeth together but steps forward. Sometimes he forgets just how much taller he is, how she barely comes up to his shoulder, and how small she's becoming. He didn't think she could lose any more weight, and if it wasn't for the soft curves of her cheeks and jaw growing sharp, he might not have been able to tell underneath all those layers. He has some extra cash from a stint last weekend, maybe he can get his brain to work long enough to ask if she wants to go somewhere to eat with him. _Another thought of a dumbass._

And yet it doesn't stop him from leaning in close. Smiling, he towers over her, his attempts not to breathe failing as he feels himself turning stupid. He can't help himself from wondering what her hair feels like today, if it's as soft as it was when he took her home and she'd fallen asleep. It's like he's back in the closet with her at Riley's or at her apartment, that same itch in his hands, unfamiliar urges he's only felt around her. 

"'Course I will. Don't need to be so nervous all the time," that's a lie, she _should_ be afraid of him—how she's the only person who isn't is still baffling, "and I wanna see what you do. The magic methods of Miss Grey." It's hard to tell when they're inside, but under the apricity of the late afternoon, he can see her cheeks darken marginally, and when her eyes widen before staring at her feet, he feels a frustrating sense of smugness. Why does he care about this shit? "C'mon, it'll warm you up when we're inside for a bit. And maybe…" 

_Fuck,_ what is he thinking? He's playing his hand too quick, isn't he? With new territory comes uncertainty, and he doesn't handle unknown variables well. In fact, he's certain he isn't built for _any_ of this. Why his subconscious is so determined is beyond him, another accelerant fueling the rage deep in his chest. 

"Maybe what, Jack?" She looks so goddamn expectant now, hopeful. He's really backed himself into a fucking corner. 

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

"Maybe… we can stop and eat something after?" 

He wishes he could punch himself in the face, both for fucking up what he said he _wouldn't_ do and for how _pleased_ he feels with himself when she turns into the embodiment of an aurora, all radiant smiles and bubbling energy and fucking sunshine. It's like they're back in the basement of that old house, when he wasn't sure if he wanted to fuck her right there on the floor or crack her head open against the filthy concrete. In the end, he did nothing, bottled it all up like he was suppressing a fever. Both thoughts make him angry. Angry because he _shouldn't_ feel like this. Angry because he can barely control himself around her. Angry because she's become a fucking hit of heroin for him, soothing at first and then making his skin itch when the initial high wears off—leaving him to search for a higher dose—and then he's left at the end wanting more, _always_ more. A desperate fucking junkie. It should make him avoid her, detox and get her out of his system, and he's tried a few times since Halloween—skipped school for a week, didn't go by her place or sit outside her window. He tried to erase her existence from his mind, annihilate her. 

But it didn't work. 

"I'd really like that," she says, looking up at him through her thick lashes before not being able to bear that, either. "Uhm, is… is there a place you have in mind?" 

The things he'd give to take back what he said, rewind to ten minutes ago so he can knock some sense into himself. But he can't, and backing out now would hinder all the work he's put in. 

_Might as well lean into it._

"I'd call it a date, but it's more of a tag-on for hanging out, isn't it?" Lena stops in place, blinking rapidly like she didn't hear him right and looking like a startled fawn. He laughs, doing a slow spin before walking away and calling to her over his shoulder, "Just yanking your chain, shortie. Don't take things so seriously." 

She’s quick to stammer all the reasons she knew he was kidding around. He didn't miss it, though—how she lit up, how her hands tremble a bit more than usual, her head down. Lena has a crush, and it's endlessly entertaining to twist around his finger. But, even with that sense of fun and her keeping the boredom at bay, something else is there, something that makes him feel violent. Anytime he sees her and she smiles, the cycle begins anew, ravaging his mind and flaying his skin, his mouth frothing like a rabid dog. He isn't sure what he wants to do when he's like this, when it hits him and his hands shake and his pupils dilate and his hunger grows to an avaricious compulsion to devour, he just knows he wants her to be part of it. But control is the most important thing, building it, holding on to it for dear fucking life. It's what's kept him out of juvie for this long, and it's what'll make this worthwhile. He's testing new methods now, building up a tolerance. 

She's talking again, trying to change the subject, but he's only half-listening. Like someone gutted the sky and left it to bleed all over them, it snows harder, the wind picking up and nipping at everything until he can feel it biting his balls. He has to grind his teeth to keep himself from swearing aloud. 

Lena's looking up now, eyes caught in wonder, her lashes little shelves for the fluffy snow. He's almost too busy watching her to notice the basketball guys talking with the girl's volleyball team as they wait for the bus. Giving them both a once over, he doesn't miss the snickering under their breath, the knowing smiles, before they're mentally dismissed, relegated to a position where they are unworthy of acknowledgment. They're loud, obnoxious, sporting their shirts from competitions and expensive sneakers, a bunch of brainless zombies who only have their above-average coordination going for them, and even that won't last. The girls will be left only with their fading looks and the ability to give decent head, while the jocks might as well be superficially suave cavemen. And yet, Jack thinks bitterly, they're the fuckers who'll have the best chance of getting ahead in life, out of neighbourhoods like this, jumping their way to one position before bullshitting themselves into the next. Taking everything they don't deserve, a waste of fucking oxygen, an especially populous group God forgot when he was giving out brains. 

"Fucking meatheads," he mutters under his breath after they pass. If Lena wasn't here, he would've spat it in their faces. He didn't think she'd hear him, but it's not until he gets to the front door of the school that he realizes Lena isn't behind him. She's a few paces back, her eyebrows screwed up and lips pressed together. 

_Wasn't as quiet as I thought,_ he thinks, scoffing.

"That's not very kind," she says quietly when she catches up. Funny how she can't look him in the eye when he's putting in the effort to be _nice,_ but she finds it in herself to defend a group of morons who wouldn't spare her a glance or bat an eye if someone treated her like dog shit. It's enough for his hackles to rise, his lip curl. 

"They waste their lives hoping for a one in a million shot at something that'll wreck them in ten years, sequestering themselves in their little _groups_ and getting all the special treatment _society_ has to offer," he says, scathing, and she flinches at his tone, but he's too far gone to stop, "Someone would be doing the world a fucking favour if they locked them in the gym, lit a match, and walked away." 

It takes a beat for him to realize what he's said, that his tenuous grasp on his self-restraint slipped. For a second, he thinks he's already ruined the game with how she's looking at him—confused and borderline stricken. He's not sure what she's going to do—chastise or yell at him, cry, storm off. He prepares himself for it, to take whatever she says to throw it back in her face, but then her features calm, and she seems disappointed—like _he_ disappointed her. She walks past him slowly, head down, but it's not because of bashfulness this time. 

"I don't think that's funny, Jack," she says, just as quiet as before, giving him a sad look before going inside the school. 

He stands there, flabbergasted. Did she just ditch him? Over some hypothetical (and deserved) talk of murder? For _fuck's_ sake. 

He should leave now, take this as an opportunity for a clean break, let something small grow into a wide chasm so he can finally have some distance between them, learn how to fucking _think_ and use his _stupid_ brain. Fuck her. Let her be offended, walk off and take the high ground like it fucking _means_ something. Fine by him. See if he gives two shits. 

He walks away, clearing the front courtyard before he finds himself turning around and heading for the school. He'd really like nothing more than to bash his own skull in. 

Catching up to her quickly (it helps that his legs are longer than hers), he throws an arm around her shoulders, gaining a bit of his pride back when she jumps and squeaks before she realizes it's him and descends into flustered babbling at his proximity. He chuckles, taking it in stride like he never left in the first place, that he hadn't said something mildly disturbing.

"I have an odd sense of humour. Don't mind me—comes with the territory of friendship." He leans into her once before removing his arm, keeping a few inches between them. Her mood changes when he mentions them being friends, something she wanted so badly when he took her home. It was endearing at the time, how earnest she was, how she really meant it. She just didn’t know what she was asking for. 

She's talking, warming up to him again and he gives half-hearted replies, his jaw working back and forth. Most people aren't cruel on purpose. It's often by accident—thoughtless and selfish and narcissistic and greedy, they shape their worlds to serve them, to fit the narratives they conjure in their heads. _I deserve this, I work hard, my friends would do anything for me, I want—want want want._

Jack isn't most people, and it turns out Lena isn't either. 

He gets off on a different set of behaviours, but it's like Lena doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. It's… _intriguing._ He wonders how much it would take to change that. 

"Have you thought about taking a class next semester?" she asks as they descend into the basement to the photo lab, her hand on the railing and the other adjusting the heavy weight of her backpack. How someone so small can lug that thing around for hours is yet another confusing thing about her. 

"Don't know the first thing about using a camera other than those little quick shoot ones, or whatever they are. Not sure I'd do well.” His fingers twitch, desperate to hold onto something, and he cracks his neck when they get to the bottom. The whole place is dark like when he followed her down here the first time, but Lena turns on the lights, bathing the room in blinding white and an electric hum that sets his teeth on edge.

Setting her bag on a desk with a loud _thump,_ she pulls out several little canisters he assumes hold film and her camera after shrugging off her jacket. She has a look in her eye, something she’s building up to. His eyes narrow. 

"There’s a beginner’s class that starts in second semester,” she says, biting her lip as she keeps her gaze fixed on the camera in her hands, her fingers working over the worn in grooves, “You might really like it. Mr. Nakamura’s amazing—" 

He shakes his head, waving the thought away before she can get on a roll, "It's okay, shortie. Some things aren't meant to be." 

The things Jack owns are few, and he’s never had something like Lena does—a hobby that takes up his time, that he'd want to channel so much thought into. He can’t imagine feeling that about… well, anything. Where would he even start? With a bunch of freshmen? He’d miss half the classes, and he can hear Lena already asking him every goddamn day how his projects are going, if he needs help. Like he wants to funnel his energy into _that._

"Well, I could…" 

Something comes over her and she seems to think better of it, trying to smile as she walks past him to the darkroom. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing and taking several minutes to clear his head before following. Walking through a thick, black curtain, the red light makes dark spots burst across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, and something strong and chemical stings the inside of his nose. Lena’s in the far corner next to something that looks like a cross between a microscope and an overhead projector, unspooling rolls of film and looking at each before cutting them into smaller strips with a practiced hand. He waits until she’s finished to walk up behind her and watch. Her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, she takes a sheet from a stack of photo paper beside her and does something with glass plates and timers that Jack has a hard time following. The page is still blank when she finishes, and he’s about to ask what’s supposed to happen next when she goes to the other side of the room and sticks it in a tray, rocking it back and forth in some kind of pungent liquid. 

He picks up a tall bottle of something called ‘multigrade diluter’ and reads the chemical compounds with interest, chemistry has always been his best subject, and watches her out of the corner of his eye. She’s focused on the developing photo, black and white springing from nothing like spilled ink. Lena isn’t nervous in here, she isn’t even paying much attention to him, her hands steady and movements confident. He’d almost think she was someone different if he hadn’t seen flashes of this when she has her camera out, seeing something he can’t even if they’re staring at the same thing. 

He’s even more certain now he hasn’t felt anything close to what Lena does. Sure, he’s had fixations in the past, things that got his mind racing where he had to learn _everything_ about it. Those lasted for a little while, but, like with everything else, they only held his attention for so long, they were never like this. 

“What were you gonna say earlier?” he asks when she takes it out of the third tray with tongs and rinses it off in the sink (an odd thing in his mind, but what does he know, he’s not an expert).

Lena looks up as if she's coming out of a dream and remembers that Jack is in the room. The self-consciousness returns as she thinks, pulling out the thought she'd dismissed as she hangs the photo (one she took of the graffiti riddles) on a drying line. It's not until she has her back to him while she washes her hands that she finds her voice. "I was going to say…" she clears her throat, stays by the sink even though the water's off now, "I could… Well, I could—you know, um…" She's playing with her cross necklace when she turns, her head down. He resists the urge to tell her to spit it out, forcing himself to be patient. "I can show you a few things some time, if you want? Y-You don't have to or anything, it's… Um, nevermind." 

He stands motionless for a moment, staring at her as she's unable to look at him, and can't make sense of what she said. What does she mean by all that? Is she wanting to play tutor, make him some kind of a pet project?

_No… that doesn't feel right._

From her behaviour, how it's like she wants to curl in on herself as she waits for an answer, he realizes there aren't any ulterior motives at all. Lena just wants to spend time with him and teach him about something she loves. He wishes there _were_ hidden motives—he'd know better what to do with those than he does with this. 

_Say something before she starts crying, fuck._

He clears his throat, "You gonna teach me to be a pro like you?" He isn't sure if he meant it to be condescending or not, he doesn't think so, and she doesn't take it that way. She just looks happy he didn't answer with rejection. 

_She's so easy, isn't she?_

He doesn't mean it sexually, the knee he got to the balls is perhaps proof of that, but she's easy in the way that she only needs the basics—someone who listens, who wants her around, who doesn't dismiss her thoughts and ideas, who doesn't push her away. Really, it's basic human decency that she needs to be happy, an easy enough order to fill for him sometimes, but most people require more—more effort, more coddling, more active manipulation and passive coercion. It doesn't add up for him—how Lena seems to be the first exception he's met, and he can't figure out why. It's not like she comes from a cushy life. He saw the large bruises on her neck at the old house and the criss-crossing scars going up her back when she was taking off her sweater, and they made him feel something he didn't understand, he just knew he wanted to see what they feel like, how many there are. They were as mesmerizing as much as they are horrifying. She didn't make those herself, someone else did. He wanted a closer look at them, still does, and he was _just_ starting to get a peek at the party before she raced out of the closet when he got too ahead of himself. Rose said it's Lena's dad who's responsible, and he wonders what it's like for her at home to look at him and see someone thoughtful and kind, how she's both of those things. He wonders, too, if her dad is just as bad as his.

"I'm still learning," she says, smiling now at the compliment and pushing stray locks of hair behind her ears, "but it would be nice having someone who understands what I'm talking about. It doesn't have to be really formal, I can just teach you how to use the camera, and..."

She goes quiet again, fingers worrying over her necklace. Why did she stop? He didn't think he was giving any kind of expression, he's not being aggressive, so—

_Ah. Think, idiot._

He isn't sure how long she'll need these little encouragements, but his annoyance from earlier is mostly forgotten and he doesn't mind indulging her. "Sure, shortie. We can go exploring again and you can show me the tricks of the 'biz," he smiles slyly, leaning on the sink next to her, "I know a few good spots—ones where the likelihood of you falling through the floor are slim." 

She laughs, "How _thoughtful_ of you." For the first time, he detects a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice, in the way she's grinning. He's only heard her do this with Rose. "Now I just have to not find something else to trip on." 

"I don't know," he drawls, tapping his chin in thought and smirking, "you're pretty creative, I'm sure you'll find a way." 

Lena laughs harder than he's ever seen, nudging him with an elbow as she rolls down her sleeves. It’s only now that Jack notices burn scars along her inner forearm—ones that were done by someone putting out a cigarette on her skin. He knows because he has a matching set on his shoulder. The same itch returns that he had when he saw her other scars for the first time, but it feels stronger now, more volatile. His hands tighten into fists, eyes dilating like he's a wolf who's caught a fresh scent of blood. 

_Keep your shit together._

His eyes follow her as she cleans the darkroom, carefully storing away the chemicals and wiping down the counters, ensuring the lenses are put back in place, the package of photo paper sealed. Lena talks about a movie she saw on TV—something about singing goodbye to birds, he isn’t paying attention—and he’s plagued with a persistent thought: If they share even a small portion of the same abuse, why is she so different from him? He can’t tell if it means something’s wrong with her, some wires aren’t totally connected, or if it’s a poor reflection on him. He wasn’t made to be good, and he doesn’t think anyone else is, either. They all have the same darkness, one uniting trait that some hide better than others. He’s seen it for himself too many times to count, a consistent variable he’s never questioned. Is he wrong, or is she lying? 

_Only one way to find out._

*

Jack thinks he could nap for three days after all the food he ate. He isn’t usually one for overindulgence; he blames Lena for going overboard. After they left school, they went to a diner she knows, a place called Zak’s, and discovered their early bird menu with deals for shared platters. He could almost see Lena salivating at the smell of all the food when they walked in, and he ordered three platters on impulse—a mix of sliders and fries and breakfast foods and nachos with massive milkshakes on the side, as if what was in front of them wasn’t enough to clog their goddamn arteries he had to add a sugar rush on top of it. Lena protested at first, using the excuse that she couldn’t eat that much when he knew she meant she didn’t have the money to pay for it. He pulled out a small stack of twenties and told her not to worry about it (she did—he could see the guilt pouring off of her). Most of her hesitation went out the window when the food came, and she ate like a starved dog. He’s a tall, growing guy—of course he was going to eat a lot—but it was the piece of cheesecake they split at the end that’s done him in. 

She didn’t ask where he got the money from, but she thanked him profusely and said she'd make him the best moussaka he'd ever had (which he doesn't doubt being he doesn't even know what it is). He isn’t sure if it’s because she thinks it’s rude or if she assumes he has a part-time job, but he isn’t about to bring it up to give an answer one way or another. It’s better she doesn’t know, anyway. 

They walk slowly down her street, drunk on food and clumsy, swaying with the wind as they keep their balance on the intermittent patches of ice. It’s stopped snowing but the bitter chill remains, sapping away their heat as the sky grows dark and the lamps overhead light up for the evening. Lena must not be used to it—having a full stomach. She looks exhausted, and some dumbass part of his brain almost wishes there were leftovers she could’ve had. 

_No, don’t be wishing for shit._

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. She’s done some kind of… He doesn’t know what to call it. He almost wants to say magic, but that’s fucking ridiculous. Magic isn’t real. 

And yet… 

He isn’t sure what else this could be, what to call this… _fixation_ he has. Maybe she has cast some magic on him. He’s heard rumours that she’s part Gypsy, and for all he knows, that's true. He's never heard her talk about her mom, but maybe the better explanation lies in a more subtle form of deception. What’s that descriptor he heard in English class the other day? 

_Beguiling._

Yes, Lena’s beguiling. But this isn’t some kind of soul magic or fateful happenstance—believing in that would mean he's completely lost touch with reality—this is just a girl playing her part well; that's the only thing that makes any fucking sense.

They almost walk by her building, but she realizes just in time to stop at the front entrance with its shoddy door. It sticks in the frame if it isn’t opened just right, or if the key isn’t put in just three-quarters of the way in the lock. Despite all that, it was really easy to pick when he tried it three weeks ago. Building security in this neighbourhood is a foreign concept. Not because people don't want it, but because no one can afford it. 

“Thanks again, Jack,” she says, hiding her mouth behind the collar of her jacket, suddenly shy, “I’ll treat us next time, okay?” 

_Next time._ She wants there to be one. Fuck, he shouldn’t feel this goddamn _pleased_ about that. 

“Sure, sure,” he says, waving away her gratitude. She smiles and says goodbye when a thought strikes him. He grabs her elbow, too hard at first and he softens his grip when she looks at him in surprise. "So, Christmas break is next week," she nods, confused, "and my family doesn't do much. Would you… I don’t know, would you wanna do a movie night or something?" 

_Way to be smooth, idiot_ , he thinks, tightening his fists and digging his short nails into his palm so he doesn’t scowl. The confidence he felt before evaporates, and he doesn’t feel any better than a gawky boy. Lena doesn’t look like she’s about to laugh—he thinks she might be frozen from how she’s standing so still, one hand gripping her zipper and the other her keys. Her eyes are the only signal she’s heard him, and the grey takes on a tawny hue under the thick yellow light above the door, her skin dark copper in the shadows. 

"At your place?" she finally forces out, clearing her throat and moving down a step. 

Just as suddenly as it hit him, his self-doubts smooth away when she speaks, and, instead of relief, he’s filled with anger. He’s right. This must be some kind of act—it _must_ be. Nothing else makes sense. 

_Stick to the plan, then._

"No, that… doesn't work as much," he says, scratching the back of his head and sighing. He looks down the street in thought, pretending to search for the answer he already has in his head. "How 'bout yours?" 

Jack didn’t think Lena’s demeanour could change so quickly. He’s seen her flustered, embarrassed, happy and excited, nervous, even scared when he surprised her in the school basement—but he’s never seen her terrified. She subdues the reaction faster than he thought she could, but she’s shaking, and it isn’t from the cold. 

"I don't… I don't know, I—" She bites her lip hard enough that Jack thinks her teeth might puncture it, and she waits for him to reconsider, to come up with another option, but he gives her none. He’s watching her with wide eyes, his expression carefully blank. She takes a shaky breath, "Let me… I—I’ll talk to my dad and I'll let you know tomorrow. You'll be in class?" 

_She really is so, so easy._

Pouring in all the charm he has left, he grins. "Just for you, shortie." 

She smiles softly and he knows she’ll make it happen; she won’t want to disappoint him, and he feels no guilt that he’s getting excited to see what’ll happen next. 

* * *

In the sixteen and a half years Jack’s been alive, he can’t remember a time when he liked being around someone. Sure, there are people who amuse him, who he tolerates as long as they’re useful. He has no desire for company, learning a long time ago that the world and the people in it are there only to disappoint, to fail. He doesn’t need their validation, their control passed off as caring. People are ugly, and so is he. Saying any different is a bald-faced lie. 

It’s the only reason why he can think of why Lena makes him so _fucking_ angry. 

Standing in a doorway about twenty feet away, he waits. He hasn’t been here long, and it’s warmer today than it was in the last week. Most of the snow has turned into wet mush, little bundles of white clinging to walls and corners as they bleed water all over the sidewalks, the street. The sun is high and too fucking bright, but the days don’t last long and it’s already midafternoon, he won’t have to wait long for dark. Wearing a thick, black hoodie, he opens a new pack of cigarettes, sticking one between his teeth, and savours the heat from the lighter, how close it is to singeing his fingertips when he ignites the end. He doesn’t move yet when Lena leaves her building, and he’s glad he didn’t wait by the door. There’s a woman with her—someone just as small as she is. Even from here, he can see the family resemblance in the shape of their faces, the same downward slant of their noses. She can’t be much older than Lena, her dark brown hair is in a tight bun at the base of her skull, a thick wool scarf wrapped around her neck, and she’s fussing over her like a mother would. But no, this woman doesn’t look old enough to be one. Maybe it’s a sister he doesn’t know about? 

He knows it’s better to wait until she leaves, but he can’t help himself. 

_“Párte lígo fagitó kai tha sas do tin epómeni evdomáda,”_ the woman says in what Jack thinks is Greek, handing Lena a small envelope. She says something he doesn’t catch in reply and breaks into a huge smile, waving excitedly when she sees him approaching. Hate and something else mix in his stomach. The woman turns and narrows her eyes at him, her chin jerking upward. Her hair is curlier than Lena’s, her skin a few shades lighter and her eyes brown. 

“Hey,” he says when he stops next to Lena, summoning a hollow grin for the woman. She already doesn’t look impressed with him. 

_“Poiós eínai aftós?”_

His eye twitches in annoyance. He can’t understand what she’s saying, but has a paranoid certainty it’s about him. Lena shifts uncomfortably, her smile wavering at the woman’s tone. 

_“Min eísai agenís, theía,”_ she replies. The woman starts to say something else, but Lena speaks over her, “Jack, this is my Aunt Penny. Auntie, this is Jack Napier.”

 _Ah, an aunt. Must be on her dad’s side_ , he thinks. That makes more sense, doesn’t explain anything about her mom, though. He’s struggling to hold in his anger, to not show his annoyance, but it ebbs for a moment when he sees she’s trying, that she clearly wants this woman to think well of him. 

“Nice to meet you.” 

He tries imbuing it with more warmth, but the woman— _Penny_ —isn’t fooled. She looks at him once up and down with judgemental disappointment before turning back to Lena. 

_“O patéras sou tha anastatotheí.”_

Jack’s never thought this before, but he _really_ fucking wishes she’d speak English. She can understand it, he can tell, and the only thing that keeps him from spitting out something nasty is how uncomfortable Lena is. 

_“Tha eínai entáxei. Eínai to vrády tou paichnidioú,”_ she says quietly, and he sees traces of the fear she felt when he suggested they do this at all and spend time at her apartment. 

Penny’s face softens and she looks from the apartment building to Lena, clutching the strap of her purse tightly. _“Min peis óti den se proeidopoíisa._ ” She pulls Lena into a hug and kisses her temple, not bothering to spare Jack another glance. _“Antío, agápi mou.”_

The fear and nervousness is still there even when Penny leaves, waving goodbye before crossing the street. She shakes her head, seeming to will herself to be cheery. “I’m sorry about that, my aunt worries too much.” He says nothing, just taking a drag of his almost-forgotten cigarette between his fingers. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if she—I hope she didn’t offend you or—”

“It’s alright. Families are weird,” what an absolute fucking understatement _that_ is, “don’t worry about it.”

She nods, grateful, as they walk down the sidewalk to the corner store three blocks away. This was their agreed on plan when she got permission from her dad. Rent a movie, get some snacks, and hang out at her place for a few hours. He didn’t suggest this whole thing for a buddy-day; the whole point is to make an excuse to do recon without having to lurk outside her window like a fucking idiot. Lena tries to change the subject, asking him how his Saturday’s been, how he slept, asinine shit that gives him a headache. Her perfume—or soap, whatever the fuck it is—seems stronger today, lingering in his nose and blocking out her voice. He’s not paying attention to where he’s walking anymore, what he’s doing. He’s staring at her neck, how her jacket’s zipped down far enough to show part of her collarbone. 

“Jack?” 

His eyes keep wandering back to her skin, her hair—and he sees that she's done something different with it today; it's smoother than it usually is, like she brushed it longer, and she's braided the front pieces into a circlet that meets at the back of her head. He wonders if she did it because she was seeing him today. 

_Why am I thinking about this so much?_

"Jack?" He snaps out of whatever daze she had him in. He stopped walking without even realizing; Lena's a few paces ahead, looking back at him curiously. "You okay?" she asks. 

_She's_ definitely _doing this on purpose._

"Peachy." He catches up, not waiting for her to trail along beside him. "Just _fucking_ peachy," he mutters under his breath. 

Alternating between gritting his teeth and poking his thigh with the small thumbtack he brought for the sole purpose for situations like this (when his dumbass brain and dick get ahead of him), he uses pain to keep his mind rooted in reality as they approach the store. He’s been here once, back in the early days after the first time he followed her home when he got snacks and cigarettes for the walk back to his place. Sandwiched between a laundromat and a shawarma restaurant in a tall brick building with apartments above it, it’s bigger than it looks. Everything's decked out for Christmas, covered in tinsel and lights and little fatass Santas plastered on the cooler glass. Stretching deep enough to fit a movie rental section, an ice cream and slushie machine, two aisles dedicated to just candy and chips and another three for random grocery and household items, and an entire wall of coolers for beer, milk and water, soda, and frozen dessert, it’s cozy, probably family-owned, and seems to be a common stop for most of the neighbourhood. 

Lena’s apparently been here often enough that the cashier, a young Arabic man, waves when she walks in and smiles, asking her how she’s been and if she finished the gift she was working on. She brightens up like a puppy being given attention, stopping at the counter and thanking him for something. Jack has the sudden urge to slam the man’s head into the glass top covering the scratch-lottery tickets until something breaks. He stabs the thumbtack into his palm until it’s warm with blood. 

_Not your problem,_ he thinks, walking away and looking at the rows of bagged candy and bins of gummy worms and taffy and licorice while he pretends he can’t hear what they’re saying. _Just shows she’s a fucking liar and a tease._

He’ll make that stop, though—finally get her out of his head. Get her to admit her idea of a fun time is pandering for attention. She’s more like Rose than he gave her credit for—she loves being at the centre of things just as much, she’s just better at doing it quietly. 

By the time she’s done eye-fucking the cashier, he’s slipped a pack of Wild Cherry & Watermelon Nerds and butterscotch drops into the inside pocket of his hoodie and is eyeing up the Doritos. He ignores her when she joins him in the candy aisle, but she’s too chipper to notice. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait,” she says, her eyes lit up like she’s trying not to spoil a surprise, “That’s Wahid. He used to babysit me sometimes during the summer when I was a kid. He’s really nice and helps me out sometimes.” He pauses for a moment. Instead of angry conviction, he feels like an irrational moron, and the anger returns with the invading thought of just how many guys she thinks are _nice._ “Picked out anything yet?” 

He moves the tack to a new spot and pushes it in, bringing up his sleeve to soak up the blood. “Still deciding.” 

Jack doesn’t look at her as he goes into the movie section, picking them out at random as he fights to get his head straight. She follows after him, and he can see her worry out of the corner of his eye. He ignores that, picking up _Bad Boys_ and staring at Theresa Randle until he can control his breathing. Lena’s moving up and down the aisles, eyes flitting from the movie covers to him, picking up the occasional case and reading the synopsis. He skips the rom-coms and action flics in favour of the horror movies; _Rosemary’s Baby_ , _Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween._ Lena probably wouldn’t do very well with these, but he’d love to see her reactions to them. It’s almost worth pressuring her into it when he sees something better.

“How ‘bout this one?” he asks, pulling out the case for _Scream_. It is so _fucking_ hard not to burst out laughing when the colour drains from Lena’s face. It’s like he’s back in Riley’s closet with her all over again. 

“Oh, do you—you want to watch a scary one?” she asks, trying to smile. 

“You don’t?” he replies, doing his best impression of innocence.

“Um, well…” He thinks she’s going to cave, say _whatever you want to do_ , when her fingers go to her throat, pulling out her necklace from the collar of her shirt and wrapping the chain around her finger. “They kind of… freak me out. I don’t like thinking about random murderers hiding in my closet.” She laughs nervously. 

He shrugs, “It’s cool. Movies like this are unrealistic, anyway. The only thing they get right is that the killer is usually someone victims know.” 

Her skin goes ashen at that and he drops it, sliding the case back like he doesn’t know he’s upset her. She’s quiet, her hands staying at her throat and arms close to her chest like she’s about to start hugging herself any minute. 

_Good_ , he thinks, letting his expression slip when he has his back to her as he looks through the titles in earnest, searching for one he can pass off as fine and scare her with later. It'll be better than the Christmas garbage movies she's looking through right now.

“What about this one?” she interrupts, holding up a black case with a big red circle and the silhouette of a t-rex. “I haven’t seen it before.” She’s smiling again when she turns it around and reads, “‘An adventure 65 million years in the making.’ That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” 

Fuck, he _hates it_ when her eyes get all big, when she pulls her full bottom lip into her mouth and looks at him like that. “Neither have I,” he lies, “let’s get that one.” 

Any sign that she was worried about something flees, and she talks his ear off about the one time she went on a field trip to the Gotham Man and Nature Museum and all the dinosaur skeletons they had and which were her favourites. She’s still talking when they go back to find snacks and she takes a pack of microwavable popcorn, salt and vinegar chips, Skittles, and the same butterscotch drops he has shoved in his pocket. He grabs nothing else, intending not to pay for shit, as Lena babbles on all the way to the counter. 

What’s-his-name, _Wahid,_ chats with her, smiling at her excitement and adding his unprompted two-cents about the movie and teasing her about how she always gets the same thing. Jack isn’t really listening, his ears are ringing too loudly with rage. 

“Nothing for you?” he says to Jack. He shakes his head, getting ready to leave as the man shrugs and rings up Lena’s crap and the movie. “$8.63.” 

He stops when Lena digs deep into her jacket pocket, counting her dollar bills and coins, and her smile fades as her eyebrows knit together. “Sorry, Wahid,” she says quietly, “Just these.” She points to the popcorn and movie. 

“You don’t want them?” he asks, just as quiet and nodding to the chips and Skittles and butterscotch drops. 

“It—it’s okay, I’ll get them next time.” 

Wahid says something about letting it slide today, that it isn’t a big deal, but Jack’s by the counter handing him a ten-dollar bill before he can think it through. 

Lena looks as embarrassed as he feels, and he hates her for it. “Jack, you don’t—” 

“I want ‘em. If you ask nicely, I might even share,” he interrupts before she can make a fuss. He'd like her to forget about this, ideally—he's already bought her dinner like a complete sob—he doesn't need her thinking he's gonna ask her out on an _actual_ date and then talk to her about going fucking steady. But it truly is like his own brain wants to fuck him over; he doesn't realize he's winking at her until the colour comes flooding back into her cheeks. 

He refuses to say anything else and doesn’t look back when Wahid tells them goodbye, stewing on what a bad idea today has turned out to be as Lena trots to catch up to him when he’s on the street and walking away. 

“Thanks,” she says, slightly out of breath by the time she catches him. He only grunts in acknowledgement, keeping his pace brisk so she has to walk twice as fast to keep up. 

Even the sun seems to be making fun of him, all shimmering iridescence and bullshit. He almost wants to tell her he forgot about something and has to leave, but it’s a hollow thought that disappears as soon as he spares her a glance. 

He really is so _fucking_ stupid. 

Meeting no one when they enter, her apartment building is even dingier in the light, brick caked in dirt and grime and the inside foyer thick with old smoke and the grey walls weeping nicotine and mould. It almost seems desolate to him, empty and despairing as it gives way to the cruel march of time, cracking at the foundations and shifting as it gets a few millimeters closer to falling down. A lopsided bulletin board spans the width of the mailboxes, holding flyers for lost pets and notices about inspections dated back from three years ago. There’s no elevator, only a crooked set of wooden stairs with a splintering bannister. He can’t think of anything more depressing than how much one place can manage to scream, _I’ve given up—put me out of my misery,_ and yet one person in it can embody the complete opposite. How she lives as a contradiction to everything he knows as reality is something he can’t wrap his head around—so it can’t be true. It must be a lie. 

“I’m on the fifth floor,” she says as they start their upward climb, apparently not remembering that he already knows which floor she lives on, and he’s not about to tell her he knows the apartment number, either. At this point, he really can’t tell if she’s just incapable of reading malice or if she cheerily plugs along in willing ignorance because she thinks she can work around it. If she was anyone else, someone with _sense_ , she wouldn’t be inviting him into her apartment right now. She’d have locked him out on the front stoop. 

_But she didn’t._

Why does he have to doubt everything, even his own assertions? Either she’s purposely misleading him for something—attention, getting her ego stroked, because she thinks it’s fun (they’re all things _he’d_ do)—or this is real, she’s genuinely and frustratingly kind, blind to an ugly world and ugly people, and she sees him as someone worth having around. Only the former has any merit as truth; believing the latter would make him fucking delusional. 

They stop at apartment 516. She pulls her keys from her pocket, flipping through the ring until she finds one with a Hello Kitty head. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” she laughs, nervous. 

“You haven’t seen my place,” he answers, dying to dig into the butterscotch drops burning a hole in his pocket and consoling himself that he won’t have to touch his now that he can eat hers instead. 

He doesn’t know what she said sorry for when she opens the door—her place is cleaner than his has ever been. It's dated like the rest of the building is, but he can see flairs of her personality all over the place. Colourful blankets draped over the furniture, Christmas lights wrapped around the windows and a small tree in a far corner of the living room, pretty vases with a single flower in each along the windowsills, photos of blue, stucco houses next to an even bluer sea, Greek architecture, and sailing boats lining the hall. Someone has tried very hard to make the place happier than it is. Beyond the façade are dents in the plaster, some shaped like fists and others at the same height Lena's head is, and the lingering smell of alcohol spilled into carpets he would recognize anywhere. 

“That’s my living room and there's the kitchen if you want anything,” she says, pointing to his right at an old, worn-out couch and armchair facing a TV that's probably been around since '89, and then to his left at what's meant to pass as an eating area and kitchen when it's just a small table meant to seat four and a corner filled with ugly wood cabinets and a counter barely big enough to hold a drying rack and toaster. “And my room’s at the end of the hall.” She indicates to the last door on the left, and his curiosity is piqued. He's only seen it in the dark. 

“Cozy." That's the _kind_ word for it, but he keeps his mouth shut. His anger subsides as he drinks in the space, absorbing every detail and committing it to memory. “You always live here?” he asks absently. 

She takes off her boots and hangs up her jacket, smoothing her hair down when it rises with static. “Yeah, since I was three.” 

“Where were you before that?” He kicks off his shoes, leaving them when they haphazardly land on the floormat and examining the Greek flag hanging above the door. 

She hesitates, her voice quiet. “I… I don’t really know.” Why does it sound like she's about to cry? “I was with my mom, I guess.”

He finally focuses on her and wishes he didn't. In addition to the new braids in her hair, her clothes are different from what he's seen before. The sleeves of her shirt are still long and go past her wrists, but the neck is open, a deep v that reaches down her sternum and stops just above the swell of her small chest. It's form-fitting, not loose and shapeless like what she wears to school, a soft purple with white daisies. Her jeans are tighter, too—hugging her slender hips and making her legs look long. His mind goes blank, every thought he had gone as he stares at her, his voice lost somewhere in his chest. 

_Think, you idiot. You're better than this_ , he repeats, making himself blink hard and remember what the fuck he was even saying. 

“She’s not here now?”

Shit, that was the wrong question to ask. Lena looks upset, a long lock of black hair wrapped around her finger as she pulls. “No,” she can't hold his gaze and she looks down at her feet, her voice soft and almost breaking, “I haven’t seen her in a long time.” 

All he can think about now is how she smells, how she looks like she could break if he applied pressure in the right spots, her big, sad eyes, and he wonders if her lips are as soft as they look. He doesn't know why, but he thinks she's really pretty when she's about to cry.

 _No, no,_ no— _think, you dumb fuck._

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me about it.” _Fuck_ , that's not what he meant to say, either. What is _wrong_ with him? 

She nods, grateful, and takes the bag from him as she forces a small smile. “I’ll get the snacks ready.” He nods, making himself look away when she turns so he won't stare at her ass. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck this is a bad idea._

He needs something else to think about. Now.

She'll be busy for a few minutes, he has time for a quick peek into the other rooms. He walks down the hall, the floorboards groaning under his weight, and notices that the only thing hanging on the wall with people in it—a black and white photo of a small girl and a man in a large frame hanging to his right. She's smiling in the same way he's grown familiar with; it can only be Lena, and she can't be more than seven when it was taken—and the man with thick hair and dark skin and a Hawaiian shirt doesn't look older than thirty. They're at a beach, full branches flanking their sides and white sand behind them. If he looks harder, there's a fine tear down the middle of the photo, dividing father from daughter. 

The door he opens first leads to a small bathroom, barely enough room for the sink, toilet, and stained tub. He catches the smell that Lena has—magnolias and lilacs—and spots a bottle of shampoo touting them as its main ingredients. There’s a few other soaps and bottles, but he doesn’t want to spend his time here, moving on to the room across the hall. He isn’t sure what he was expecting Lena’s dad’s room to be like, maybe more like his own father’s was, but he wasn’t anticipating it being so clean. The bedsheets are tucked in, the pillows in place and smoothed, and another picture of a young Lena and her father sits on his bedside table. He has her hoisted up in this one, an arm under her legs and her arms around his shoulders. They look happy. Happier than he can ever remember being with his own parents. 

_The scars on her back didn’t come from nowhere_. He could be wrong, maybe it’s not her dad she’s scared of at all. For all he knows, they could’ve come from an accident. He’s been hit plenty by his parents, burned a few times when he was especially noisy as a tike, but he’s used to family dysfunction coming in loud fistfights and screaming and lobbing heavy objects at one another, shouting verbal abuse that cut deeper than any shard of broken glass or plate lodged in his skin. 

He’s about to leave to see her room when he spots a deck of playing cards on the dresser next to a pack of cigarettes and cologne. It's well-used and worn through in some spots, the red box falling apart at the corners. Sliding them into his hand, he thumbs the cards, the edges catching on his callouses. He stops when he gets to the Joker card, a jester clad in red and black caught mid-dance, eyes closed and mouth screwed up in a wide grin. A proxy, the ultimate trump card, the Joker’s wild. He slides it into his pocket before putting the deck back and shutting the door behind him. 

It’s Lena’s room he’s most interested in. She’s microwaving the popcorn, moving dishes around in the kitchen; he still has time. He’s surprised by the lock on the other side of her door—it’s heavy duty, the kind of deadbolt used on exterior doors. Her room is smaller than he thought it’d be, only big enough for her twin mattress on the floor with a blue duvet with a pink mosaic pattern, a tiny desk, and two-drawer dresser and some space for pacing, but it’s the mural on her wall that grabs his attention. 

Haunting black and white photographs, odd angles of buildings pointed upward, hard lines of concrete reaching for stormy clouds, portraits of girls staring back at him, their eyes piercing and heavy, photos of Niel Young and Nina Simone and Pearl Jam cut from magazines, lush gardens with luminescent foxglove and lady slippers. Polaroids of Lena and Rose are placed intermittently. Together smiling and pulling funny faces, Rose looking over her shoulder in a bathing suit with her black skin bathed in warm sunlight, Lena opening a birthday present with what looks like genuine joy, Lena and Rose smiling while they decorate Christmas cookies together, icing all over their hands and smudged on their jaws and foreheads. He doesn't know why, but looking at them makes him angry, and he resists the urge to take them with him.

_Was she faking for all of those, too?_

There’s more to see, but he’s been gone too long. His eyes linger on the photos of her face, and they follow him even after he’s quietly shut the door and walks away. Lena’s making some kind of punch in the kitchen. She’s humming to herself, her hair pushed over her shoulders. He recognizes the tune—’Wayfaring Stranger’. One of his favourites. 

He stands behind her, unsure what to think. His anger’s vanished, and he doesn't know if he should summon it again, his certainty gone with it and doubt rooting in its place. He likes watching her when she thinks no one’s looking, how her shoulders relax and posture loosens. She isn’t as clumsy when she doesn’t overthink it, lost in her own head, some dream he wishes he could scry. He’s quiet when he gets closer, close enough so he can breathe in the scent of her shampoo, his eyes tracing the slant of her shoulders, the slight curve of her waist. He smiles when she turns and almost drops the jug of juice as she squeaks in surprise. 

“Jack!” she gasps when she gets her breath back, moving to get some space but running into the counter instead. He’s close enough that she can’t brush past him without her chest touching his. It’s funny how quick the self-consciousness returns, her bashful nervousness. “I—I didn’t see you.” 

His eyes are heavy, his hands almost taking on a life of their own. He wants to feel her again, have her chest against his, his hands feeling the sharp bones and soft swells of her hips and waist. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, shortie.” He knows he’s smiling like a wolf, a smirk with heavy, half-lidded eyes as he leans in close. Reaching behind her to grab a small handful of popcorn, he’s almost daring her to make the connection between what he’s doing now to what happened at Halloween. But she doesn’t, and he keeps smiling. “Mmm. It’s pretty good,” he says after popping one in his mouth, licking the butter from his finger. She’s just staring at him, mesmerized, and he's drunk on the power he feels, the surge of ego. “C’mon, we watching this or not?” he calls to her as he leaves the kitchen, his grin growing wider when she stammers out a reply. 

He’s getting the movie ready when she walks in, arms full of bowls of candy and chips and popcorn and two cups of pink juice. How she doesn’t drop it all over the place is a mystery, and he pops in the VHS after turning on the TV, waiting until she’s sitting to take the cushion next to her, forgoing the armchair and leaving barely an inch between them, his arm close to brushing hers. Her breathing gets deeper but she tries to give nothing away, pressing play on the remote and staying stiff beside him. 

She’s like that for the first twenty minutes of the movie, not even reaching for the snacks as she keeps her eyes glued to the screen. It’s like she’s in the movie from how she’s reacting, eyes big when the dinosaurs show up and Ellie and Alan fawn over them. As the suspense racks up, Lena gets closer to Jack. It must be unconscious, looking for something to hold through the jump scares, and she grabs his arm when the t-rex storms out of its pen to start its fun little murder spree. He almost regrets not getting a horror movie after all. 

“Sorry,” she says when she realizes she has a death grip on his bicep, but he says nothing and sinks into the couch, his thigh touching hers. It seems to make her relax, her grip easing as she gets lost in the movie again, managing to be more invested in it than he’s ever been in anything. 

“You good?” he laughs when Ellie makes her mad dash for the utility shed and the hunter’s on his way to get eviscerated, prompting Lena to sit upright with anxiety, silently urging them on and seeming to forget that the movie has a predetermined ending and this might as well be a goddamn Disney movie—all of the main characters are guaranteed to stay alive. She nods, her cheeks darkening with embarrassment as she feigns interest as the raptor chases Ellie out of the shed. 

He’s almost too busy watching her to watch the movie when he hears a key being inserted into the apartment door lock. At first, he thinks nothing of it, but Lena’s heard it, too. She’s on her feet, stricken with pure panic, looking between him and the bowls and the movies and the door with a kind of terror he’s only seen his mom emulate before his dad went on a rampage. 

“What’s wrong—” 

By the time the word’s out of his mouth, the door swings open and a stocky man stumbles inside, bringing with him a miasma of sweat and booze. Even with the bloodshot eyes and thinning hair and deepened wrinkles, Jack recognizes the man from the photographs on the wall. It’s Lena’s father. 

Jack stands next to her, his stomach uneasy with a twisted kind of excitement, the sort of knot in his gut that he gets when he’s about to watch someone get knocked down a peg. He’s taller than her dad by at least four inches, but he’s broader, his biceps twice the size of Jack’s and thick with muscle, his hands big and fingers short and rough. His eyes are bleary and unfocused, but they manage to find Jack, looking at him blankly before his gaze lands on Lena. She’s shaking so hard he thinks she might fall over. 

_Guess she never asked him,_ he thinks, something pernicious and vile building in him. He’s eager—eager to see the _real_ side of her come out, to learn to not lead guys on, to not lie. The tension between them is thick enough to cut through with the switchblade in his pocket, and he’s eager for the shouting match to start. 

“Uh, hi—I’m Jack. Lena’s friend,” he says when the other two are silent. Her father says nothing to him, but his building rage is palpable. Lena’s almost in tears. Jack isn’t used to this. His parents would fly off the handle no matter who was there to watch. This feels… different. 

He’s never seen anyone as afraid as Lena is, not even his mom on the worst days with his dad, and he’s beginning to realize he miscalculated. Why did she lie and say she talked to her dad? 

Well, he knows the answer. He just refuses to think about it.

 _“Poió eínai aftó to agóri?”_ her dad says, his eyes acidic with wrath. Jack's surprised by how calm he sounds. 

Lena can barely summon her voice, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest and eyes down and brimming with tears. _“Eínai fílos,”_ she replies, almost inaudible. Jack wishes for the second time today that he could understand what they’re saying.

_“Eísai pórni psématos.”_

She flinches like he hit her even though he never raised his voice, her head bowed until her hair is a curtain attempting to shield her from his anger. _“Bampá, se parakaló, lypámai.”_

Her voice breaks, and the magnitude of his fuck-up is starting to dawn on Jack. He was expecting her to meet his anger with her own, like he'd have done with his father, to hear all the nasty thoughts she keeps in her head. But maybe his first thought in all of this was right—Lena really doesn't have a mean bone in her body, but he can't admit he was wrong. She should've said something to him earlier, told him what her dad was like. It's not _his_ fault. How could he have known?

“J-Jack, I think you should go home,” she forces out, wiping at her cheeks and making herself move towards the still open door. He follows, not missing the murderous intent in the man’s eyes, the raw and savage anger that tells him this man would like nothing more than to beat his head in with a hammer. 

When he gets to the threshold, sliding his shoes on as the twisted excitement transforms into an uncomfortable ball of something he can’t name, he hesitates, thinking again of the scars on her back. “Lena—”

“I’ll see you later, okay?” she interrupts, her lips trembling as she smiles. 

He hesitates again, unsure. This is just as unfamiliar as everything else has been with her. “Yeah. Sure.” 

He doesn’t know what to call this swelling urge inside his chest, either. He wants to do something, drag her out with him, maybe. But he can’t. He has a sinking feeling about what'll happen when the door closes. 

“Are you… will you be okay?” he asks, speaking quietly. 

Something in his chest hurts when she looks up and gives him a kind smile, like the ones he saw in her photos, even though everything else screams fear. “I—I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Of all the things he expected to see, he can’t find blame. That somehow makes this worse. “Bye, Jack.” 

“Lena, wait—” 

But the door’s shut, the deadbolt and chain sliding in place. It’s quiet for a moment, and he almost lets himself believe she’ll be fine, that it’ll just be yelling after all, maybe a few destroyed things and a bruise or two. He’s ready to let that be his truth, but he can hear something heavy landing against the door all the way from the entrance to the stairwell. 

_“What did you do, whore?”_

He can hear her dad shouting through the wall as if he were standing beside him, and Jack freezes, unable to do anything but listen. 

_“I—we didn’t do a-anything—”_

Jack involuntarily flinches at the sound of Lena being slapped. When he walks back toward her apartment door, he can hear her crying. 

_“Liar.”_

She’s gasping in pain, her voice tear-choked, _“I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry, daddy, I’m sorry—”_

Lena’s quiet when he hears her getting hit again. He feels sick. He hasn’t felt like this since he was eight. _Why didn't she say anything?_ Why the _fuck_ would she lie when she knew he'd react badly?

 _“No daughter of mine will be a slut. You hear me?”_ He’s screaming now, the walls vibrating like they’re being hit, too. _“If you get yourself pregnant like your whore of a mother did, I’ll carve it out myself.”_

He fucked up and he fucked up _hard._ He didn’t think about this reaction. Jack knows well enough that there are worse people than her dad, he’s met some of them, but he thought—from how Lena acted—he never expected this. It doesn’t make sense. He can’t reconcile the bright, happy person with the one on the floor crying, how they’re the same, how she isn’t warped like he is. How could he have known it was this bad? He couldn’t have. It’s not his fault. This isn’t his fault. She shouldn’t have let him come over, she should have said _something—_

_“Take it off.”_

The foreignness of the feeling makes it all the more powerful, making his chest feel tight. He doesn’t want to think about what her dad’s talking about. He wishes he couldn’t hear her whimpers of fear. He wishes he was deaf to it, that he’d walked away five minutes ago, that he didn’t stay to listen. 

_“D-Daddy, pl-please—”_

Unable to remember the last time he felt so nauseous, he takes the tack from his pocket, driving it into his thumb to clear his head, to think through this. Even the pain and the gush of red doesn’t help when he hears the struggle on the other side of the wall, something being torn, his ears ringing with the familiar sound of a leather belt meeting bare skin. It’s worse when Lena’s quiet. Her whimpers are almost silent enough that he thinks she’s passed out, but it’s when he counts the eleventh strike that she finally shrieks in pain, sobbing. 

He wants to kill him, drive his knife into the man's meaty neck. Lena’s so small, what kind of fucking chance does she have against a man of his size? What went so fucking wrong that the man smiling in the photos would turn on his own fucking kid?

 _You already know the answer._

That’s true. He’s forgetting the lessons he learned by age seven. People don’t need a reason at all to be nasty and mean. It’s true most people don’t intend to be cruel, but there are plenty who do. People are garbage, trash waiting to pop up and fuck over whoever is convenient. Pain is easy to inflict, and it feels _good._ He knows that. Gets off on it. There's always been something fun about watching people _squirm._ Uncomfortable or afraid or both. But there’s nothing about this that feels good. He feels sick when he forces himself to leave, the echoes of her whimpering for her dad to stop screaming in his ears. For a moment, he tells himself he can forget about this, see her at school after winter break and make it up to her. It’s not his problem. Bad things happen all the time. Who knows, her dad could’ve come up with any reason to do that, it could’ve been completely independent of what he did. Abusers don't need an excuse to be cruel. It's not his problem. The fucked up social systems of Gotham should be taking care of this. She could be living with her aunt, she could've fucking _said something._ This isn't his fault. _It's not his problem._

Even when he's blocks away and his teeth chatter as the wind pricks his skin, he has a hard time convincing himself that he's right.

* 

The night is cold, electric blue from the signs overhead frozen in ice and crystalline patterns etching itself into the shop front's glass as the temperature drops. For a Saturday night that's a couple of weeks away from Christmas, the street is quiet, the bars he passed weren’t even full, and few linger out in the chilly wind, but Jack makes himself wait a few minutes longer. The lights in Lena’s room have been out the whole time he’s been watching, but he wants to make sure there's no surprises or passersby to call the cops. It’s not the most likely thing to happen, everyone in this neighbourhood knows cops in Gotham are a bad joke, but he’s being cautious. It’s only when his fingers are almost too stiff to bend and the tip of his nose feels like it's about to freeze that he climbs the fire escape at the back of her apartment building, moving quietly as he works his way to the fifth floor. 

Metal creaking from the cold and his weight, he places his steps carefully, his switchblade clutched in his hand, just in case. He's nervous when he reaches the catwalk leading to her window. He swallows it, holding onto his resolve as he kneels in front of the sill, using the brick outcropping to give himself some cover as he brushes the snow and frost from the window with his sleeve. Silver moonlight only illuminates vague shapes and outlines, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust enough to see the shape of Lena face-down on her bed. He can't tell if she's sleeping or not, she's facing away from him, but he doesn't want to risk the noise of tapping the glass. Her window doesn't lock properly, and he opens it with ease, going slow so it doesn't screech in its frame, and he leaves his shoes outside as he enters her room and closes the window behind him. 

He's seen it in the dark half a dozen times, but tonight, her room feels different. Magnolias and lilac mingle with something else he recognizes but can’t place. He’s almost relieved that she _is_ sleeping, it means he doesn’t have to face her yet, and he edges around her mattress, struggling to keep his balance. When he kneels down next to her bed, he realizes she's not wearing a shirt, the skin of her bare arms and small of her back sickly blue and green from the light outside and her hair pitch black as it drapes over her torso. There's a temptation to look, flip her over before waking her up, but he crushes it immediately. No, he's not a sick fuck, and _that_ is something a sick motherfucker would do. He's about to pull up her blanket to cover her more when he sees why she isn't wearing a shirt. Her hair is caked in something, it's wet and sticky to touch, crunchy where it's dried. His fingers come away black when he holds it up to the light. 

It's worse than he thought. 

“Lena,” he whispers, carefully shaking her shoulder. She groans in pain and he eases his grip, brushing the hair from her sweat-streaked face. It’s almost as cold inside as it is out, but she's burning up. “Hey, it’s me.” 

Her eyes flutter for a moment, unfocused, before she jerks away from him and tries to scream. He claps a hand over her mouth quickly, the other holding her down by the shoulder as he listens for signs of movement in the hall. She’s whimpering behind his hand, confused as she grabs his wrist. 

_Fuck—as if you couldn’t get any dumber._

He realizes now this was a poor method to wake up a girl, especially a girl who’s not wearing a shirt and is stomach down on her mattress in the middle of the night. He really is a brilliant bastard. 

“It’s okay,” he says in her ear, slowly easing his grip, “It’s Jack. You’re okay.” 

As soon as he says his name, she relaxes, her body sinking back into the mattress. “Jack?” Her voice is hoarse, barely a rasp. “You should… you shouldn’t be here.” 

At this point, he isn’t surprised that she doesn’t ask _why_ he’s in her room. He shakes his head. “Just… shut up and let me help.” 

What a strange thing to hear coming out of his mouth. _Let me help._ He isn’t sure if he’s ever said that before. He can't dwell on it. Not right now, anyway. 

_Plenty of time to ponder my idiocy later._

In the corner by her mattress, he finds a small flashlight that has working batteries. “There,” he says, clicking it on and waving the beam around the room before it lands on her back. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. “Oh, fucking Christ.”

Her back is a molten field of black, indigo, and sea glass green, the brown of her skin almost completely lost in the bruising. He thought it was the lighting from outside that gave it that colour, but no—her dad beat her until she wouldn't be able to sit up for a week. Welts the size of her palm spot her back like a field of rolling hills, but he doesn't see the worst of it until he moves her hair out of the way, Lena gasping into her pillow when he peels back the strands embedded in the open wound. There are three gashes on her back; one on her shoulder that's relatively shallow, and another spanning most of her lower back, but the deepest one follows the ridge of her bony spine. It's thin but jagged, going in at least half an inch, and spans at least six. It's still oozing blood and plasma, creating the smell he caught before, the skin angry and red. Underneath the bruises and new cuts, he can see rows upon rows of scars on her back, some even wrapping around her waist and marking her stomach. He's seen people get fucked up before, get their asses beat and head's caved in, but he never stuck around long to see the aftermath. He's frozen, his eyes transfixed on her back, his hands hovering over her fevered skin. 

“I… I’m sorry," she croaks, voice completely broken. 

_She can't be fucking serious._

He scoffs, “Why the fuck are _you_ sorry?” 

He can't help the tone, the blind anger. He's angry because he's confused—confused as to why she isn't screaming at him, telling him what a piece of shit he is, that she never wants to see him again. If anyone had screwed him as bad as he did to Lena, he'd do worse. He'd go an eye for an eye and then some. 

But Lena clearly isn't him. She cowers into her pillow, almost hyperventilating but then yelping when her ribs expand too far. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, and he's about to be angry again when she bursts into tears, holding her sheets tight and trying to hide. "I—I'm sorry," she keeps saying, over and over, even when her voice gives out. 

Jack can't remember if he's ever felt so panicked before. She needs to stop crying. What the shit is he supposed to do with a crying girl? He isn't built for this. He can clearly see _why_ she's upset, but he doesn't know why _she's_ apologizing, how anyone is meant to give—what, comfort? Is that what he's supposed to do? 

_Just fucking try something,_ he thinks, his hands shaking as he runs through what he's seen in movies, on TV. He can't touch her back like he's seen people do, he doesn't think he should really touch her at all, being that she's half-naked. “Hey, it’s… it’s not your fault.” It feels so fucking hollow coming from him. It's true, though. It isn't her fault, is it? 

“I—I ruined today,” she rasps, crying still because she's upset or in pain—he can't tell, maybe it's both. 

“No, Lena,” he hesitates, but he rests his hand on her head, running his fingers through her hair slowly, “It wasn’t you.” Someone used to do this to him when he was a kid, pet his hair, talk about his curls. He remembers that it felt good, it was calming, and he's relieved when, after a couple of minutes, it seems to have the same effect for her. “Just… get it out, I guess.” 

She nods, struggling to control her breathing as the gash starts to bleed again. He doesn't stop until her tears slow, hiccuping occasionally and her eyes drooping. Unsure of what to do, the heel of his hand against his forehead, he tries to remember every stupid thing he's ever seen about someone giving comfort. He usually has a great memory, but right now he's coming up with _zilch._ Waiting until she falls asleep and leaving almost seems like the best option now. He can't do anything for this. She needs a doctor. But how the fuck is she supposed to see one? 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

“I made something for you," she croaks, shifting with a groan of pain until she can see him better, careful to keep her chest covered with the sheet, "I wanted…” She coughs and whimpers at how it shakes her tiny ribcage, and he's reminded of how much weight she's lost in the span of a month. At this point, he doesn't know how she hasn't passed out from the pain of just having to breathe. “I wanted to give it to you before you left, but…”

He's about to dismiss whatever the fuck she's saying as the delusional ramblings of a girl in agony, but then he sees that she's pointing to a wrapped gift on her desk. It's small and rectangular, neatly wrapped in green paper with little rabbits in Christmas hats. He didn't think it was possible to feel worse. He never once thought about getting her anything. 

“Shortie, you didn’t…” _You didn't have to_ , is what he'd like to say. But he really did fuck up. She was being honest, she wants to be his friend. A real one. And he's already fucked it beyond repair. “What is it?” he asks, clearing his throat as he holds it in his hands. It's light and has bumpy ridges, the top of it rippled. 

“You can open it if you want.” 

She sounds nervous, and it takes a second for it to click that she's anxious because she wants him to like it. He carefully peels back the tape, unwrapping it instead of tearing it open, and he doesn't know what to say. It's a photo from the house they went to, one with the dandelion growing through and clinging to the old washboard, most of the picture completely black until it hits the yellow of the flower, the small beam of light it's reaching for. She even made the frame, using pliant branches to bend them into shape and held together with hot glue and twine. For the first time, he feels a genuine pang of guilt. No one's ever made him something, ever put this much thought into a gift, and he would've never thought to do the same for her. 

“Do you like it?” 

She wasn't faking. He was wrong. It makes this all the more pathetic. Or maybe it just makes _him_ the pathetic one. 

“Yeah," he murmurs, feeling strange that it's him that can't bear looking at her this time. He clears his throat, “Yeah, I do.”

He wouldn't be able to stand it if he saw her smiling. It would feel… _wrong._ She's in bed, covered in bruises and cuts that'll take weeks to heal because he insisted at watching the movie at her place, in so much pain that breathing too hard is agony, and she's thinking about _him,_ if _he's_ happy _._

It's almost too much to think about. 

He looks to her door, thinking. He might be shit at comfort, but he knows how to treat cuts. Rage and fury find him, catching him off guard, when he sees that the heavy-duty lock that was there earlier has been ripped off, parts of her door splintered around the handle. The only way she'd be able to lock her dad out would be if she barricaded it with something, and there's nothing in here that's big enough to have a hope of keeping him out for long. He thinks of Lena's shirt, how he heard her dad tearing at it. Something else could've happened, couldn't it? Are there limits to what he would do? 

_Don't ask._

He doesn't want to know the answer, and he doesn't want to force it out of her, either. This is already fucked enough. He thinks of the switchblade in his pocket. _That_ would be the best way to help, wouldn't it? Permanently ending the source of the problem. This wouldn't ever happen again if he's dead.

“Is your dad still here?” he asks, his voice low and dark. 

Lena must've passed out again, she's forcing her eyes open, drowsy with pain. “I—I think he’s sleeping on the couch,” she wheezes when a small bout of coughing hits her, and she buries her face in her pillow to keep from screaming.

He can end this. Tonight. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

She tries to sit up, grab his sleeve, but drops back down as soon as she bends her spine. “N-No, Jack—” she pants, afraid. 

He realizes she isn't afraid of what _he'll_ do, but of what her dad will. He almost wants to laugh. Ignoring her, flashlight still in hand, he slips out into the hall, his socked feet testing each spot on the floor before putting his weight down, avoiding the creaky spots. She was right, the old bastard is passed out in the living room, empty cans of beer at his feet and his mouth open as he snores. Jack's only felt this kind of hate for one other person in his life, this black loathing that feels thick in his veins, makes his muscles tight. The only other sound in the apartment is the click of his knife popping into place. 

_Pathetic piece of shit,_ he thinks. It's when he wasn't big enough to fight back that his father was at his worst. It became less of a beating and more of a fistfight by the time he started getting some height and weight to him. His dad thought the challenge was funny, but he never got the advantage again of putting Jack in a place where he was helpless. Lena can't do much of anything barehanded, she'd need a gun, and he doesn't think she'd ever pull the trigger. He's done it once, and he feels eager to do it again. 

Should he slit his throat, watch him choke and gasp as he bled out? Or does he want the satisfaction of feeling his knife bury itself in his thick chest, pulling out and driving it in again and again and again, make him beg Jack to end it as he writhed like a worm on the floor? Both are appealing, but he's leaning towards the latter, hungry for something—violence, retribution, getting another victory over shitty people like his dad. Jack had shown him, didn't he? And now it's this bastard's turn.

He's about to bring it down when another thought strikes him, the small bit of reason left in his brain fighting the bloodlust. What would happen if he killed him right now? He could make it look like a home invasion, but then the police would find Lena fucked up in her room. They might pin it on her even though she can't even sit up and doesn't have the weight or muscle to stab a man to death. His prints are all over the apartment, and he's sure it would come out that he'd been to her place today. It could be _him_ going to jail. As gratifying as it would be to watch his blood soak his own living room carpet and piss himself in terror, Jack needs to be smart about this. 

A new thought works itself to the forefront. It would take him being patient, might even be a year before it would happen because the circumstances would have to be _just_ right. But that's a year of this potentially happening to Lena again. 

_Then… fuck._

Maybe it won't be as bad if he's around—not to be at her place, but to make her be in hers as little as possible. As enraging as it would be, Lena staying at Rose's would be better than her staying here. Yeah… he can make that work. 

Begrudgingly, he flicks his knife closed, malice and unspent brutality making his arms shake with adrenaline. He'll need to vent this out another way, but he can still help Lena even if it isn't killing her father right now. 

When he sneaks back into her room, a half-empty and insufficient first aid kit in one hand and a glass of water in the other, Lena's passed out again. He raided her dad's room and found some Vicodin under the name Philip Matsuoka, he doesn't know if that means he bought them off of someone else or he has a different name than Lena, but it doesn't matter. He took two and crushed them up to mix in her water. She'll be out of it pretty soon, but at least the pain won't be as bad. He makes another trip to wash his hands, fill a large bowl with water, and find a clean cloth. She's still out when he closes the door, taking some of her clothes from the floor and stuffing them under it to muffle some of the sound. Lena needs stitches, but he's only done it to himself twice.

"Wake up," he whispers, shaking her until an eye opens. "I have to stitch the cut on your back. Can you handle that?" 

She whimpers, but she manages to get her arms around her pillow and hold it tight. Nodding, she buries her head in it, her breathing erratic. There's no way this _isn't_ going to hurt, but he can be quick at least. He washes her back first, making sure it's clean (that's a step he's skipped before, and the resulting infection was a bitch), the cloth turning the water red immediately when he dips it in the bowl. She's shaking, her body tense, but she's quiet until he finishes, her ribs stuttering as she struggles to breathe. 

"This is gonna hurt," he says. She doesn't reply, only nodding and tensing up again. Dipping the needle in a bottle of peroxide and threading it, he gently places one hand on Lena's back to steady her. Even that amount of pressure is enough for her to hiss and breathe sharply. He's surprised, though, when she doesn't scream as the needle pierces her skin. If it wasn't for her death-grip on her pillow, he'd think she passed out again. She's doing well, impressing him with her pain tolerance, only trembling violently when he's on the fourth pass with the needle. “Almost done.” 

Some blood still comes through after he knots the end of the thread, and he dabs at the laceration the best he can. Applying pressure to bruises would make the bleeding worse, right? He isn't sure. What else does he need to do? Bandages, he should bandage this. Lena's gone limp, but her eyes are still open, her brows knit together in pain. He tries his best to be gentle when he starts putting polysporin on the cuts, working it in before putting gauze overtop and taping it in place. 

She's shivering by the time he's finished, her skin still burning hot but her forehead's clammy with cold sweat when he presses the back of his hand to it like his mom used to when he was sick. Getting her into a shirt might be too much, and he'd need to help, but he isn't sure what he'd do if he saw her bare chest. No—he needs to avoid that. Lena wouldn't be able to look at him ever again if he got an eyeful. She only has the one blanket, how the fuck is she supposed to get warm? 

He looks down, remembering that he's wearing a hoodie. Taking everything out of the pockets and setting them on her desk next to his gift, he shrugs it off. It probably needs a wash and smells like his cigarettes, but it's better than nothing. 

"Need ya to sit up, shortie," he says, gripping her arm and pulling her up. She almost screams, the sound coming out in a strangled yelp instead, her chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut. He doesn't have the patience for this shit. "C'mon, you need to warm up—" 

She shakes her head, clutching the bedsheets close. “I’m—it’s okay.” 

_No, it's clearly fucking not._

He suppresses his angry retort, the vicious urge to rip her upward and force her to do it makes his blood hot, but he grits his teeth, forcing himself to be calm. “Sit up.” Lena makes it _really_ fucking difficult when she shakes her head again, and he feels an irrational burst of anger when he sees she's crying. 

_Oh, you fucking moron._

He releases her arm, remembering she didn't tear her own shirt off. The sick feeling from before returns and settles in his gut, heavy and noxious. 

“I’m not gonna look," he says softly this time, "Hold onto the sheet.” He doesn't force her to sit up, just taking an arm and working it through a sleeve. She stares up at him in confusion. “Stay still.” 

“What’re you…”

He adjusts it so she can pull it under her stomach, so the back of his hoodie covers her front and he can partially zip it up without smothering the bandages. The relief on her face convinces him he must be right, something else happened, and the heavy thing in his belly grows.

“Put your arm through the sleeve." He helps her the rest of the way, guiding her other arm through and trying not to make her stitches pull. 

He doesn't know what else to say now, what he can do. This is about the max of his knowledge, he can't do much else, and how is he supposed to make this better? There is no remedying this except through time. He doesn't know how she's going to get up to do anything, what she's going to be able to do when he leaves. But what else is there? 

_You've done more than you should've already. Not your problem anymore. You checked on her and now you can leave._

Lena looks asleep, anyway. The Vicodin must be kicking in. And he gets ready to make the walk home in nothing but a long-sleeved shirt. Has he mentioned that he really hates winter? 

“Jack?”

He's already got the window pried open by the time she comes to, shifting until she finds him. How one person can look so fucking sad and make even a guy like him feel bad is a goddamn fucking mystery. But he finds himself answering anyway. 

“Yeah?” 

Her nose is buried in his hoodie, and something swells in his chest at the thought that she likes how he smells. 

“Will you… will you stay with me for a while? Just until I fall asleep?” she asks, her voice slurred and raspy. 

It won't take long until she's out, right? He's already here and not looking forward to the walk home, so… there's no harm in this. 

_Right?_

“Scooch over,” he sighs, shutting the window and laying down next to her on the bed. It's small and he ain't exactly tiny himself. He maneuvers her so his arm is under her pillow, he's on his side, and she's tucked in close. He doesn't slip underneath the blankets, it's a smarter idea even if it leaves him chilled. He's by no means a religious person, but he's almost desperate enough to pray that she falls asleep quickly, even if her being so close feels nice. 

"Jack?" Her eyes are closed, but her fingers find the hem of his shirt, gripping it tight. 

"Mmm?" He's trying to think about algebra, calculus, doing equations in his head and not thinking about how warm she is, refusing to let his brain fixate on her scars, to indulge his morbid curiosity. 

"Thank you," she breathes, and he swears she's closer than she was before, "you're really nice." 

Laughter almost bursts out of him, but none of this is funny, there is _nothing_ entertaining about this. She's missing the dramatic irony, that he's the essential part of the chain of events that led her here, that's left her in so much pain. 

And yet she clings to him anyway. 

"I'm not nice." That feels like a gross understatement. He's a terrible person doing the minimum to make up for something he didn't even do. She should be telling him to leave, not to stay. But the heavy thing in his belly mixes with something else, a dull pressure near his groin. He goes back to thinking about math and the random calculations he makes up. Even if it doesn't work, at this point he needs to cling to the illusion of it. "Just… go to sleep, shortie." 

Why hasn't Lena found hate, like he has? So many scars. So many permanent marks of cruelty lashed into her, carved down to the bone, split her skin like an overripe peach. She has more than him just on her arms alone. And yet he doesn't think Lena knows what it is to hate, doesn't know what it's like to feel rage that resonates deep in her marrow, become part of everything holding her together. He doesn't know how she manages it, what makes her different. He accepted it so easily, still does. Hate and spite are his fuel, the venom that’s replaced his blood. Nothing hurts because he won't let it, nothing breaks through. _Nothing._ Not his father's belt, not his fists, not his mother's words, the sharp sting of her hand meeting his cheek.

 _I showed them, though, didn't I?_ he thinks, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. It's good Lena isn't coherent enough to see it. She's trembling next to him as he runs the tip of his fingers around her cuts and bruises, careful to apply no pressure, just eager to feel her heat, the pulsing blood itching to break through the surface, molten and almost juicy. He wonders what it would be like to sink his teeth in, feel it under his tongue before biting down. 

But then she buries her head against his shoulder, breathing him in, exhaling with a small sound of something—a sound of comfort, almost. Something he’s never really known. She looks even smaller when she's like this, but she's just as soft. 

He doesn't understand thoughtless care, kindness that sweats from one's pores. He doesn't know why she's different, why she knows what men do, what they're like, and yet clings to him like a touch-starved kitten, eager for the warmth of something, _anything,_ knowing no fear, just the intense desire to have someone close. She gives him trust he hasn't earned. If he was anything like the men he knows, it would be so _easy_ to kill her right now, rape her, revel in how she'd cry, in her screams of pain. Briefly, he wonders if the colour of her blood is different, too—indigo and moss green and crocus blue, the colours of her bruises—and he wonders if it feels like his, is just as warm. He's glad he isn't the kind of man who gets off on hurting things less than half his size, preying on girls who have no chance of fighting back, that not everything in him is mean, that he doesn't feed off that kind of hurt. 

_Not with her, anyway_. 

"Jack?" she mumbles into his chest. 

He doesn't feel bad about rolling his eyes, she can't see it anyway. "What?" 

"You're a good friend." 

No, he isn't, is he? She's the only one who can't see that. If he's being honest, this is his fault, and it's like it never crossed her mind to blame him. It makes him angry that she doesn't understand, that she's so fucking _easy_ and he wishes, for the first time in a while, that he was different. But that's a fleeting thought, submerged in a dark wave just after it formed. 

He likes how Lena holds him, how her fists clutch his shirt like it's the only thing keeping her from drowning, how her body fits into his, so small but stronger than he thought. She isn't fragile. Not in the ways he's used to. He realizes there aren't many people in her life worth having. In a sick way—he knows good people don't think like this, that there's something wrong with him—he wants the marks and scars to be ones he’s made, for her bruises to be his accidental gifts, bruises from holding her too hard and pressing her into the mattress as he's on top of her, her moaning and keening underneath him. He'd be uncontrolled, raw, and she'd willingly want it, eager for him, not hating him for what he is, what he does, what he'll do. All her love and adoration would be his, reserved for him alone. She'd want him, want him more than anything. He could be her world, her sun. He can be all she ever needs. 

"Sleep, shortie," he answers, sighing and rubbing at his eyes, trying and failing to dispel the dark thoughts taking root in his brain. 

She can be his. Only his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greek Translations: 
> 
> Párte lígo fagitó kai tha sas do tin epómeni evdomáda. - Get some food and I’ll see you next week.   
> Poiós eínai aftós? - Who’s this?  
> Min eísai agenís, theía - Don’t be rude, aunty.   
> O patéras sou tha anastatotheí. - Your father will be upset.  
> Tha eínai entáxei. Eínai to vrády tou paichnidioú. - It’ll be okay. It’s game night.   
> Min peis óti den se proeidopoíisa - Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.   
> Antío, agápi mou. - Goodbye, my darling.   
> Poió eínai aftó to agóri? - Who is this boy?  
> Eínai fílos - He’s a friend.   
> Eísai pórni psématos - You’re a lying whore.   
> Bampá, se parakaló, lypámai - Dad, please, I’m sorry. 
> 
> Thank you all again for sticking with me! Reviews are always greatly appreciated, and hopefully it won't be long before I update again.


	5. Charm

_The night is an enormous weight beyond the silent blanket of dreams under which I smother myself._

Fernando Pessoa, _The Book of Disquiet_

* * *

It’s five days before Valentine’s, and Zahra Williams sits in the midst of a pile of bright, iridescent wrapping paper with colourful bows at her feet, boxes in various stages of destruction all over the table, a new Cabbage Patch doll in her lap with its brown skin and big hair done in twists and pigtails. Her fingertips are covered in frosting as they sing to her, an out of sync chorus that makes up for their mismatching harmonies with verve. It doesn’t matter to Zahra if they follow the same beat, she’s grinning from ear to ear, tongue pressed where her canine used to be before it fell out last week, her hands tightly clasped together and bouncing in her chair, the sugar rush setting off fireworks in her brain. 

“Happy Birthday to you!” they all finish, laughing when Zahra blows out the seven candles and looks at them with big eyes, giggling when they stubbornly remain lit no matter how hard she tries, like they're burning with some kind of magic. Her friends join in, blowing together like that’ll do the trick, lungs full and tongues out. 

_Rose probably won’t want any of the cake now_ , Lena thinks, smiling to herself. 

She's watching with rapt attention, the Williams’ Polaroid camera in her hands and her own nestled safely in her lap, wrapped in the folds of her long black skirt with the small pile of photos she’s already taken. Rose has grown increasingly impatient since Zahra’s friends arrived and the house descended into pandemonium, but, unlike Rose, Lena could spend all day with kids. They hold the same sense of wonder of the world she has, and they look at her with admiration instead of with their heads tilted and eyebrows raised. She can almost imagine this is part of her own memories of when she was young, having so many friends and two parents who wanted her, a small backyard with a green lawn in summer and enough space to build a snow fort in winter. If Lena’s learned anything in her life, it’s that, sometimes, it’s easier to pretend.

But there are some things Lena can’t ignore, no matter how hard she tries. 

Rose hung back with Djamal when they were outside earlier playing tag with the kids, whispering together and leaning on the paint-chipped fence, wet with thawing frost. Lena didn't notice at first, too caught up in the shouted squeals and Zahra and Shani grabbing the ends of her scarf and spinning her in circles until she wrapped them in her arms and they fell into one of the piles of snow, new since that morning after a night of heavy snowfall. Before, Rose would be the first to join in, outracing them all and having the best aim when they'd start a snowball fight, but she just... didn’t seem interested today—or any other day in the last three months. Rose would be seventeen in July, maybe she thought she was getting too old for their games. Lena wasn't sure what that said about her. She was quick to chastise herself—Rose had Djamal, he wasn't into these sort of things being a year older, of course she had to keep him company.

It was a convincing argument, she thought, until the same thing happened at dinner, them sharing private jokes and tittering under their breath, heads bowed toward one another. Lena couldn’t hear over the loud voices crowded around the house, half the block was invited for Zahra's birthday with parents drinking beer and kids eating too much birthday cake and chips, and Rose and Djamal were across the room, drawn into their own worlds. Rose didn't tell Lena they were dating until after Christmas: it confirmed what she already suspected but didn't take away the sting. She thought Rose meant it when she said she didn't want to date, that she wanted to focus on school and getting into a good pre-med program, but Djamal is nice and adores her. What kind of friend would she be if she objected to that? So Lena will say nothing, happy because Rose is happy. Her chest tightened like it did at Halloween, but there are things she chooses not to remember, things that hurt too much. 

_You're being stupid, there's nothing to be sad about,_ she repeated to herself. She told herself it's true and so it is, no matter how heavy it sits in her stomach.

Lena’s love for Matthew and Taniel grew when, despite all the things drawing their attention, they sat next to her at dinner and asked about school, if she and Rose had studied enough last night for their geography test tomorrow in second period, how her back is doing with the cold. She appreciates their care and thought, but she tries not to think about what her dad did anymore. He begged her to forgive him when he sobered up, his breath stale and his eyes swollen and red, tongue thick and his mind slow. He didn't even remember why he did it, but he cried and bought her new things with money she didn't know he had, filling the fridge with groceries and giving her cash to go to a movie with Rose; he even bought her a proper winter jacket. She believes him, just like she always does, even when she knows she shouldn't. It's easy to think this time will be different, that he'll surprise her and things will get better, that she won't have to wait for any more cuts and bruises to heal. 

Beneath her hopeful fantasy lies the truth. She feels ashamed—ashamed they know and feel sorry for her, that she can smile and say it's all fine, she will be fine. Maybe it will become true if she says it enough, transform reality through sheer force of will. She can keep hoping. There's nothing bad about hope. 

"You're still gonna play with us, right?" Zahra asks when dinner’s finished and most of the cake is gone, her friends leaving one by one after their parents are tipsy on beer and exhaustion. She holds up her dolls and shows them off like Lena wasn't here when she opened them, and Shani pops her head up from where it rested on the table, eyes bleary but excited at the prospect of another game, her hair pressed flat on one side and the other curly and wild.

Lena smiles. "Well—" 

"You little ladybugs have friends to say goodbye to and a mess to clean up, then you're off to bed," Taniel interrupts, waving away her daughter's protests, and Lena is relieved. She loves seeing Rose's sisters, but her energy has been harder to gather since Christmas and much more easily spent. She can feel it fading, no matter how hard she holds onto it. 

"Maybe if you ask nicely, Lena will come back to play again," Matthew says, smiling fondly at his daughters with his arm around his wife, his thumb stroking her shoulder. 

"Lena always comes back," Zahra asserts, clinging to her arm with sugar-sticky fingers. "Right?" 

She feels warm. Her smile widens. "Always." 

It used to feel true when she said it before—she always carried the certainty that, no matter what, she'd always have Rose, that wherever she was, home would be there, too. As she watches her and Djamal out of the corner of her eye, how they lean into each other and smile as he kisses her on the cheek goodbye, she feels the dream fade. And, it seems to Lena, she feels sad for no reason at all. 

*

Lena and Rose don’t say anything to one another after Zahra and Shani fall asleep on the couch before they could do any cleaning, tired themselves, and they carry on with the task in silence, an odd feeling after being surrounded by so much noise for hours. She would have been lonely if Taniel didn't hug her goodnight, if Matthew didn't squeeze her shoulder, gentle but firm, if Rose didn't give her a small smile. Exhaustion has such a tight grip on her, Lena thinks she could sleep for the next ten hours, but then she remembers tomorrow is Monday, it's after 1 AM, and she'll have to be up in less than six hours, ready to face the day. That's getting harder and harder, too. 

The silence had threatened to leave her in the world alone when she was in the living room, but, as they pull up their covers and stare at the ceiling, the bright turquoise of Rose's bedroom walls fade into a dark, placid river, its swell quiet as it surrounds them and lulls them to sleep, Lena is grateful for it. Here, she doesn't have to imagine the warm, soft words coming from the other side of the wall. She knows Taniel and Matthew are talking about the day and smiling in their room next door, Rose is breathing steadily just above her, Zahra and Shani sleep soundly across the hall, bodies heavy and minds far away. She doesn't have to hear anything to know that there's love here, that a small part of it is for her, that they know she loves them, too. Such a foreign feeling, but one she treasures, a small fire she keeps in her heart always.

As close as sleep seemed, Lena doesn't drift away. Her body is tired, but her mind is awake, churning up every unwanted thought at a pace she can't keep back. It’s a chill that starts at the base of her neck and spreads to her fingers, retreating inward to her chest. Her face is half-buried in the blanket, only her eyes peeking out, looking for objects to count, glimmers of light to watch. She finds snow falling outside the window, briefly igniting under the dim echoes of the street lamps radiating at the edge of night, gentle and lazy as it blankets the earth in large, white swaths. Lena hopes it'll last long enough to feel in her hands, white little bundles of elaborate prisms shaped by the wind, each stacked carefully on top of the other, creating something new and opalescent and shining. She hopes it'll stay longer than a day before it melts with the sun, teasing for spring before the cold comes again.

“I’m doing some AP courses this summer,” Rose says, startling Lena. She thought Rose had fallen asleep already. 

“AP courses?” Lena sits up higher in her makeshift bed on the floor, pulling the blankets around her to keep out the chill.

“Yeah. Pre-med stuff. Chemistry, bio, math.” Rose sounds half-asleep, but Lena's glad to hear her voice, even if coherent thoughts are difficult to find in the fog enveloping her mind. 

“That’s great." She rolls onto her side, facing Rose's bed. Her eyes trace the dip of her waist, the rise of her hips in the dark. 

Rose is quiet for a long minute, and Lena thinks she's fallen asleep until she takes a big breath. “It… means I won’t be around as much.” 

She blinks, not understanding what Rose means at first, but then it clicks: she's talking about the summer. “Oh, right. Of course.” Rolling onto her back, she stares up at the ceiling, eyes going to the far corner where they made a small little galaxy of their own with glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to the popcorn plaster. Their luminance has long since faded, only shadows left to cast funny shapes in the night. Lena summons the memory of when they were thirteen with a book on constellations open at their feet as they tried to recreate Orion and the Little Dipper, their bare toes cold and their shoulders warm where they brushed against one another. It dulls the pain. “Being a doctor’s your dream—I’m glad you’re working for it.” Lena means every word. She wants Rose to do her best, to find her calling, and that’s what she’s wanted for as long as she’s known her. She just doesn't know where she'll be, if she fits into that dream. 

It's quiet again, but it's lost its solace, the enchanting atmosphere, and Lena feels alone. Rose's breathing becomes heavy, and Lena closes her eyes, emptying herself so she can sleep, so nothing hurts. It doesn’t work well. 

“So… what’re you gonna do?” 

Her eyes open again, heavy but not from sleep. “Hmm?”

“Over the summer,” Rose clarifies, shifting. “What are you gonna do to stay busy?”

She hasn't really thought about it yet, but the answer comes easy, “I’m gonna get a couple of jobs, save some money.” Her lungs fill and empty. She had planned on not mentioning it to anyone, it seems like such a stretch—a foolish endeavour that will just leave her disappointed—but she can't help herself. “Someone from Gotham Academy of the Arts had a booth set up on Thursday.” 

She doesn't add that she stayed and talked with a woman named Pamela for forty-five minutes. Pam was so friendly and kind, she talked with Lena about photography and the different schools in the area, what they look for in portfolio submissions. She even told Lena that she seemed bright and she'd look for her name when she got to her senior year. Lena felt special, like her work could mean something. But then she got home and began to doubt, remembering what her father tells her about foolish pastimes. She still has so much to learn. She isn't sure if she's good enough, if she'll ever be good enough. 

“Oh, yeah,” Rose says, adjusting her pillow under her head. She sounds more alert, her yawns less frequent. “I remember seeing that.” 

Another beat of silence passes between them. Her heartbeat quickens.

“Tuition's fifteen-thousand a year.” 

“How’re you gonna pay for that?” 

It's a good question. She doesn't even have a bank account. All of her money is hidden under a floorboard beneath her mattress, it's the one place her dad hasn't thought to look in his drunken frenzies when he needs cash to settle his debts or place another wager. Thinking about saving that much is overwhelming, but Lena wants to try. 

“I was talking to one of the ladies at the table. They have scholarships I can apply for when I'm a senior, and if I can work enough for the next two years—”

“Lena, that sounds like a lot.”

Silence descends. She knows Rose isn't trying to put her down, she wants what's best, but it stings.

“Yeah, but… I don’t want to abandon it just because it’ll be hard, y’know?”

Rose doesn't answer, but Lena doesn't think she's asleep. She begins to wonder if telling her was a bad idea. She hasn't mentioned any of this to Jack. He's said more than once how college is a capitalist money pit and a waste of time, and she doesn't want him to think less of her for wanting to go. She doesn't want him to see her fail. 

“That’s something I’ve always admired about you.”

She freezes, air catching in her chest; she can't have heard that right. “What?”

“You’re so much more determined than I am.” Rose sounds tired, but it's different. She isn't sure she's heard Rose sound like this before. 

“No way.”

“Yeah way," she chuckles, and Lena can almost see her smile in the dark. "I don’t know how you do it. You’re gonna be famous someday.”

Now it's Lena's turn to laugh. “I’ll be happy if I can have my own place, maybe somewhere closer to the outskirts by Blüdhaven." She gets caught up in the image of it, carried away by her own words. She imagines herself somewhere green and with lots of light, a clear view of the sky, the smells of the city gone and replaced with citrus and sweet sap and jubilant plants reaching for the sun. "I can have my own little garden, it’ll be quiet. I’ll have a big room and enough space for you to come over whenever you want.”

“You always dream so big.” Rose rolls onto her stomach, her arm draping over the side of the bed. “Make sure you mention me in the acknowledgements.” 

“I’ll dedicate the whole thing to you.” Lena giggles, barely managing to keep them quiet. Her eyes try to find Rose's familiar features, but she doesn't need the light to imagine them; her face is etched into Lena's memory. She'd know Rose anywhere. Every curve and edge, the brown warmth of her skin, the lighter hues of her palms and her pink tongue, how she smiles and how her eyes flash when she's lit from within, her fire burning bright. She's always been Lena's favourite person to photograph. It doesn't matter what she does, Rose always looks beautiful, and she's happy Djamal sees it, too. Rose doesn't look at her like this, Lena knows. She's never expected her to feel the same, and maybe that's why it aches differently in her heart. She smiles softly, sadly. “My muse.”

“Damn straight.” 

She can hear Rose's smile in how she laughs, the playful taunt. Lena can't find anything else to say, and they fall silent again. It feels heavier this time, thick like humid air on a hot July night. She wants to fall asleep, for her mind to clear, but it doesn't. For all she knows, an hour has passed, but Lena still can't rest. Her breathing is quiet, her lips parting, something sharp stinging the backs of her eyes. 

“Rose?” she whispers. 

A quiet beat. A drawn out yawn. 

“Yeah?”

_Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump._

“We’ll always be friends, won't we?”

She struggles to remember when it was just her and Rose, when they were the only people the other needed. It was in summer when they spent a whole night talking about what they want to be after high school, what they'd do first if they won the lottery. They told each other their fears and anxieties, softly spoke reassurances and validations with love into their pillows before falling asleep. Why did they stop doing that? 

“What kinda question’s that?” Rose asks, groggy. “‘Course we will. Go to sleep.” 

Now Lena feels childish, and she grips the edge of her blanket tightly. It's been a long time since she's felt like this, like she's on the edge of losing everything. Her eyes burn. Her throat tightens.

"Right… right. Sorry." 

Unsure if she succeeded in sounding light, Lena turns her back to Rose, feigning sleep. It'll elude her tonight, but she doesn't have to keep Rose awake any longer. She doesn't need to keep being a burden. Exaggerating her breathing, taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly, she waits for Rose to do the same, for it to be safe for her to be restless, to sit in the far corner with her flashlight and a book to read until dawn, fighting back what's been threatening to overwhelm her for months. 

But Rose has always been good at surprising her. 

"Hey." 

"Mmm?" Lena answers, hoping she sounds sleepy. 

"C'mere. We'll go old school." 

She pats her mattress, shifting towards the wall and throwing open the covers. It's like someone's taken a heavy weight from its place on Lena's chest. Hope was clutched in her hand, but now she feels hesitant to believe its gentle affirmations. 

"You sure?" 

Rose groans, flopping down with a muffled _thump._ "Girl, make up your damn mind." She sounds annoyed, but Lena can see through it. She doesn’t hesitate, crawling out of her makeshift bed made of sunken couch cushions and spare blankets and into Rose’s, laying at the edge so she doesn’t crowd her. But Rose nuzzles close, throwing an arm over Lena’s waist and dragging her to the middle of the bed, and she presses her head to Lena’s shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she sighs sleepily. "I love you, you know that, right?" 

The ache leaves like it was never there, her heart feeling light but full, like she just had a warm meal surrounded by family. She can see Rose's face clearly now, her rich skin and the sharp edges of her cheekbones softened. 

"Yeah,” Lena says, smiling. “Yeah, I do.” Her body relaxes, and her head lays atop Rose's, careful not to let her earring catch on her braids. She feels safe here, like nothing could ever go wrong. “I love you, too.” 

Rose holds her hand like she used to when they first started having sleepovers, their fingers intertwined between them. The bed is comfortable, the blankets warm and soft. When Lena closes her eyes, she imagines she's laying on a large, flat stone bathed in honeyed light, a deep kind of heat seeping up from the earth as the sun drapes its warmth over her skin. There's a river nearby, its waters a cool offering of reprieve and within reach if Lena stretches out her arm. But she's content to be here, to feel, just for a moment, like she's curled up next to the heart of the world. 

And still, sleep doesn't come to Lena. 

"Still awake?" Rose whispers, her thumb swiping over Lena's. 

"Trying not to be." 

She yawns; she sighs. "Fuck it. Sleep is for the weak." Pulling away but never taking back her hand, Rose's eyelids are heavy but she's grinning, trying to think through the dreams clouding her sight. She hums in thought. “Okay—if you could go on a date with Keanu Reeves or Will Smith, who’d it be?”

 _Leave it to Rose to ask the weirdest questions,_ she thinks, her grin matching Rose's. 

“Keanu.”

“Bitch, nah—are you _nuts_? Will is _fine_ —”

“But Keanu seems nice—”

“We’re talking about making-out, not which dude’s gonna buy you flowers—”

Lena has to cover her mouth with her hand to stop the giggling, her chest shaking with them. “You said it was a date!" she says through splayed fingers. 

"How do you think dates _end_?" She wiggles her brows, fingers poking into Lena's side; she buries her face in her pillow to muffle the tickle-induced laughter. 

"You’re ridiculous," she pants when she's caught Rose's other hand and finds her breath. 

“Maybe.” Rose shrugs, staring at the ceiling before her gaze returns to Lena, full of mischief. “But we can be ridiculous together.” 

It feels like a promise when Rose says it like that. A promise that things won't change, that they really will always be friends. Her doubts are gone, hope has filled her chest, and she gets lost in the opaque veil of it all, the embrace of familiarity. This feels true. She wants it to be true. She can make it true. 

Holding her hand a little tighter, Lena bows her head until it’s against Rose’s and she can almost taste her spearmint toothpaste as she breathes in and out. Their arms are folded between them like they’re starting some strange prayer of sisterhood, stirring ancient promises and binding oaths. How could she have doubted before? It’s the same now as it always has been. Rose is her constant, her best friend. 

_Always._

“Deal.” 

* * *

It only takes being at school for four hours for all of Lena’s self-assurances to dash against the grimy, stained linoleum tiles of the cafeteria. Nothing feels true anymore, like last night was a dream. A good dream. So good that it tricked Lena into believing it was real.

 _Why couldn't it have lasted a little longer?_ she thinks, slowly eating her lunch. It would've been the same as Rose's, a ham sandwich and a small bag of carrots, if she hadn't bought a small salad and fries for the table. The room is full and loud, kids vying for space to be heard and their voices clambering over one another. It's a high ringing in Lena’s ears, white noise muffling its source. 

"You're not seeing someone?" 

Lena isn’t paying attention. After their test in the second period, she and Rose planned to meet for lunch. She thought it was just going to be the two of them, but then she went to Rose’s locker and the other three were already there, discussing something about hanging out after practice on Thursday. They stopped talking as soon as they noticed Lena, changing the subject to last week's game and how wrecked Djamal's wrist was after he aggravated an old injury. They smiled and nodded at Lena, but didn't say anything else to her, and her world became painfully silent, her mind empty and blank. 

The group congregates around Rose, and Lena is left to think as she sits at the end of the table, a dangerous pastime in the last few weeks. What is she meant to do, though? They’ve been talking nonstop together—about upcoming games, coaches making bad calls, what they need to do for their diets, which muscle groups they need to build. None of it makes sense to Lena, but there are no lush worlds to lose herself in today, just sticky pools of enervation. She feels heavy, present in body but not in mind. What is she going to do when she gets home? Work on her essay or do her assigned reading? It doesn't seem to matter. She knows her dad will be there. He said something about making _tomatokeftedes_ for dinner tonight when she left for Rose's on Saturday, something she hasn't had since she was eight. Her back aches, it hurts to breathe. 

"Yo? Space cadet." 

When Lena drags her head out of the dense fog, she looks up to see everyone staring at her. She didn’t realize the question is meant for her. It takes a moment to recall what it even was.

"Oh, no—no, not my thing." She waves her hand dismissively, uncomfortable at the thought.

Ayesha rolls her eyes and takes a careful bite of her BLT wrap. Her skin is warm brown, like bronze clay, her black hair long and crimped and her nose flat and broad. She’s pretty like Rose but doesn’t smile nearly as much, quick to point out what's wrong and laugh when someone falls. 

Carter smirks, dipping a fry into a messy mix of ketchup and mayo on his plate to taunt Ayesha with before sticking it in his mouth. "What about that tall blond dude who's always skulking around?"

"That's Napier," Djamal says, his arm around Rose while she examines her cuticles. She hasn't said anything to Lena since they sat down. 

"Ohh," Carter says knowingly. _What_ he knows, Lena isn't sure. His usually flat black hair is spiky today, styled into sharp tips with gel, his slanted eyes on Ayesha and holding the weight of an unspoken joke. He’s wearing his jersey despite it being February, his lean arms pale. His eyes are on them, intermittently flexing his muscles when they're not on Ayesha.

"We're not dating." Lena's skin feels too tight, like it's shrunk or her bones have grown too big. This hasn't come up before—most of the time, they pretend Jack doesn't exist. She feels awful for thinking this way, but it's easier. She doesn't have to hear them talk down about Jack, be ignored when she tries her best to defend him. Sometimes, she hears what he said about people like Rose and Djamal—about what would do the world a favour—in her head. It feels like a betrayal, almost. Like she's stuck in the middle of something she doesn't know how to name. 

"He wishes you were," Ayesha snickers, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"No, he doesn't," Lena says, bringing up a leg so she can hug her thigh to her chest. Jack's intense and brooding sometimes, but he doesn't like her that way. He's had too many people in his life be cruel, and Lena's determined never to be one of them. They hang out more than she does with Rose nowadays, and he’s never said anything other than a couple of teasing jokes. She isn't sure if she wants him to, either. Even if she does feel nice when he's around, when he smiles just for her. She feels safe. Important. "We're just friends." 

"Sure," Carter scoffs. Bundling his garbage together in a ball, he throws it, aiming for the garbage can by the door and missing. He makes no move to pick it up, laughing when Djamal ribs him with an elbow.

They start laughing about something else, their attention diverted, and Lena’s relieved. Jack didn’t show up for school this morning—he wasn’t in their European History class—and she wishes he was here. Rose is focusing on Carter and Djamal, teasing them and playfully rolling her eyes, talking about their after school running practices. Track and Field season is a month away, and it’s all Rose seems to think about with them. Lena scolds herself when her thoughts start descending familiar trails, ones that tell her she’s the odd girl out sitting at the very end of the table, removed from everyone else. A passive afterthought. 

_Stop it, Lena._

She feels like a bad friend—the worst kind. Her back hurts like there are invisible hooks caught around her ribs, the scars pulling, and she holds her sweater closer to her torso, her body trembling in a cold sweat. 

"Y'know, if you let me fix these up," Ayesha begins, surprising Lena when she brushes a thumb over one of her thick brows, "and show you a few tricks, you could get a guy like Marcus." 

Lena jerks away from Ayesha’s touch, the feeling of her hand on her face. She knows she didn’t mean anything bad by it, but her skin still ripples, her spine rigid. Marcus is another one of their friends, a good-looking Latino boy on the basketball team with Carter and Djamal. He’s never spared her a second glance, nor she him. 

She shakes her head, struggling to keep her smile. "No, that's okay, I—"

“That's what I've been telling her for a while," Rose interrupts, looking at Lena for the first time since they’ve sat down. Her braids hang over her shoulder, silver and gold shining in the light, her chin resting on her hand as she appraises Lena. She wants to correct Rose, she hasn’t said anything about them to her. It’s Rose who’s the first one to bite back at anyone who calls her “Miss Eyebrows”, and she hardly ever gives her beauty tips at all—she knows Lena isn’t really interested and doesn’t have the money for makeup. Lena doesn’t understand.

"Marcus is a douche, no one should be goin' out with him." 

"Who've you been talking to? Connie?" 

"Nah, nah—for real, yo—"

They keep on like that, bickering and throwing fries at each other. Lena doesn’t know who half the people are that they mention, doesn’t understand the jokes they make. The invisible hooks around her ribs pull harder until she thinks she might be ripped in two. She needs to go somewhere quiet. She needs to be alone. 

"I need to meet with Mr. Nakamura," she says quietly. No one seems to have heard her, continuing on as they were. Her tongue thickens in her mouth when she thinks of trying again, so she doesn’t. Gathering her backpack and putting her mostly untouched lunch inside, she stands. No one notices that, either. "Um, see you, Rose." 

But she's busy with Djamal. He has an arm wrapped around her neck, holding her close as he kisses her temple. She’s giggling, slapping at his arm and half-heartedly telling him that he’s embarrassing her. The longer Lena stays, the worse she feels. They don’t notice when she leaves, no one in the cafeteria does, and she slips away, picking up Carter's discarded trash and putting it in the bin on the way out. Mr. Nakamura won’t be around for lunch—he always goes home and eats with his wife—but she can go into the darkroom and get the photos she needs ready for the school paper meeting this afternoon. She doesn’t have to think about anything down there. It's another world separate from this one, and she tries not to think of it as running away.

Small groups of friends pass her by in the halls, elbows brushing against one another and their laughter loud as they argue if the Metropolis Meteors or Gotham Rogues are better, if Ashley likes Morgan or if Brad's gonna take Kim to dinner on Friday, who might have copies of an old trigonometry test to study from. It's foreign to Lena. All of it. Envious isn't a descriptor she would have applied to herself before, but it's the first one that comes to mind now. Maybe it isn't envy and more… disappointment. Disappointment in herself. If she looks up, she'll see everything that isn't meant for her, new additions on a list as long as her arm. Fear is something else she feels. Fear that no one really knows her, that they never will. 

Absently, her fingers worry over her necklace as she walks, her head down. She's doing her best to keep her thoughts submerged, hidden, even if it takes almost all of the energy she has left. Going by muscle memory, she doesn't realize someone's standing in the middle of her path until she bumps into their chest, face-first. 

Spluttering apologies, she doesn't see it's Jack until he shoves his hood back, a lopsided grin deepening the dimple in his cheek, his freckles more pronounced under the fluorescent lights. His hair is growing too long, the blond curls almost brushing his shoulders. He looks happy to see her. Well, as happy about anything as Jack gets. 

"Think you might need glasses or somethin', shortie." He laughs, flashing a sharp canine before his eyes narrow. The smile dims, suspicion taking its place. "What's up?" 

She wasn’t expecting to see him today and can’t help but think of what Ayesha and Carter said. Her mind spins. There's too many thoughts—too many at once—and Lena is so tired. She can't tell if she's smiling back or not. 

"Just heading to the darkroom." She looks away, eyes heavy. "I'll catch up with you later, okay?" 

Not waiting for a reply, she goes around him. For the first time in a long while, she wishes no one knew her, that she was a faceless body, invisible. It must feel better than this.

Jack's hand wraps around Lena's bicep, his hold tight as his fingers dig into the muscle. What was so overwhelming clears when she meets his eyes, feels the weight of his furrowed brows and radiating intensity. There's something volcanic about it, some fiery being trapped behind the cool exterior waiting to burst through his skin. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and deep. It floods over her, and she's angry with herself when she wonders if a small part of him really does like her. 

_Wishful thinking, and where has that gotten me?_

She shakes her head, trying harder to seem normal, to ignore how his grip is beginning to hurt. All she can think about now is how it felt when he stitched her back, his burning skin on hers, how much it hurt, and her cheeks singe with shame.

“Nothing. I just didn't…" She didn't what? Didn't bother to keep her head in reality, set herself up for failure? Her eyes rest on her ratty boots, noticing that the laces are undone, her throat tight. "I didn't sleep very well. I just need some rest." She thinks she could sleep for a year and it still wouldn't be enough.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says, tugging her arm and tipping her off-balance until she's close to him again. The familiar scent of cigarettes and his soap makes her head cloud. 

"I’m… It’s fine." 

“I can tell when you’re lying," he says. The playfulness is gone, his eyes dark and hard like shards of flint. Lena feels awful, like she's letting him down, too. "It’s a bad look on you.”

It's pointless to wish she didn't come to school today—there wasn't much of a choice, she was with Rose—but she finds herself doing so anyway. Jack lets go of her arm when she relaxes, stops pulling away, but she can't make herself look up at him. 

“I’m sorry. It… it’s stupid, that’s all.” 

She wants to leave it at that. It _is_ stupid. _She's_ being stupid. Again. But Jack leans against the wall of lockers, pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and sticking it between his lips. He crosses his arms, eyes sweeping her frame up and down lazily. She never feels invisible around Jack. She feels painfully transparent, like nothing escapes him—each movement and expression noted and catalogued away. Her skin must be on fire for how hot it is, like her blood is turning into steam, billowing and separating muscle from bone.

“If it’s bothering you, it ain’t stupid,” he mumbles around the cigarette, flicking his lighter open and inhaling deep as he ignites it. Lena searches the hall for teachers, her eyes stinging when he exhales, a cough building in her throat. She goes to grab it from him, but he twists, adjusting so it's too tall for her to reach. He smirks, craning his neck to take another drag. “Except this. No touchy.”

Lena gives up, knowing that Jack is both bigger and stronger than she is and much more stubborn. He’d give her a hard time just for fun, and she isn’t in the mood to playfight. “You’re going to get in trouble,” she says, sighing. She knows Jack doesn’t care, but she wishes he did. Her arms drop, heavy and stiff. She’s starting to think having a nap in the darkroom might be a good idea. It means settling for the photos she has, and then she remembers Antonio. She doesn't want to let him down, either. 

Jack steals her attention again when he flicks her forehead, none too gently either, and she glares. He chuckles under his breath, "Spill." 

Of course, he won't apologize. He only does so rarely and if she's upset, but she can't stay mad at him for long. She doesn't want to. The fear returns—fear that if she starts talking, she won't be able to stop.

“Just feeling a little… down lately, I guess. Tired.” Even though the smoke makes it harder to breathe, she leans on the lockers beside him, her backpack sliding from her shoulders to the floor. The whole school smells like smoke, anyway. Smoke and bleach, old paint and rust. Most things are falling apart and held together with duct tape and other improvised repairs. The metal door of the locker rattles when she leans her head back, her eyes closed. It's dented in the shape of a skull and cradles hers.

“Why? Something happen with your dad or—”

“No! No—not that,” she interrupts, her hand pressed to her forehead. He worries about her more since _it_ happened, invites her along on walks or to grab a milkshake—he even studies with her sometimes. She knows he hates that. He never needs to open a book and can pass every test with at least a B while she has to fight for hers. His attention, something he never gives to anyone else, used to make her feel… She isn't sure, but she didn't used to feel like _this_. Why is everything so jumbled, confusing? “I’m just—I'm thinking too much. In my own head about things. Rose… She has more people to hang out with, and that’s _good_ , I’m really happy for her. I guess… I don’t know.” Every word feels like another betrayal to Rose, like she's admitting something she shouldn't. 

_Maybe it's because you're a bad friend._

Her chest aches because it makes sense. She bites her lip, hard. She wants it to hurt. 

“Feeling left out?” Jack finishes, angling himself so he's crowded close, looking down at her with this cigarette pinched between two fingers. It's only when he's like this that she remembers what it felt like when he lied down beside her, when she woke up still wearing his hoodie but he had gone. Something in his voice resonates inside her, like the quiet bass of a second heartbeat, her synapses misfiring, electric and jolting. “It’s okay, shortie.” 

When he raises his arm, she thinks he's going to touch her, brush back her hair like he had when she was crying and in pain, but he doesn't. She isn't sure if she wants him to. In the fall, it's all she could think about. Now she… just isn't herself. Can Jack tell, too? Is he waiting until someone better comes along, until he can forget about her? 

“You’ve got me now," he says quietly, close to her ear, his hot breath fanning down her neck, smoke sliding under the thick collar of her sweater. She finally raises her eyes. He isn't smiling, and that being made of fire is closer to the surface. There's something intimate in how he said it. She knows what she _wants_ to call it, but she only hurts herself when she walks through life with her eyes closed. This isn't a solemn vow, soft, binding words, it's just… Jack being Jack. 

_Then why doesn't that feel true?_

She wants to know what he's thinking, ask if he means it, when a harsh voice echoes down the hall. "Get that cigarette out of your mouth. Right now." 

Jack looks over his shoulder, one brow raised. Mr. Finnegan, the Vice Principal, stands at the mouth of the hallway, fuming. She shrinks under his glare, but Jack seems to grow taller, his slouched spine straightening. Winking at Lena, he grips his cigarette between his index finger and thumb before giving him the bird. He smiles wickedly when she gasps.

" _Jack—"_

The Vice Principal grabs Jack by the collar of his shirt by the time she straightens, guilt leaving her mute. 

"You just earned yourself a month's worth of detention, young man," he snarls, pushing Jack forward. Mr. Finnegan isn't known for his love of students, and she remembers the time he yelled at her until she cried when she skipped gym class after getting her period for the first time last year. A thick lump forms in her throat, her shoulders tense. 

"It's my lucky day," Jack drawls. "Do I get a sock monkey, too? 

"Keep at it and I'll make it two months." 

Even ten feet away and with the bell ringing to signal the end of lunch, she can still hear him chuckle under his breath. He looks over his shoulder and waves, the cigarette still between his fingers until Mr. Finnegan takes it and snuffs it out on the bottom of his shoe. "Sayonara, shortie." 

They disappear around the corner and, despite being surrounded by dozens of others, Lena feels entirely alone, confused and unable to articulate why. 

*

The afternoon passes in a milky haze. Lena doesn't hear what her teachers say. She doesn't take notes. Her pen never moves beyond making intersecting, crowded lines in a corner until they spill down the page, a chaotic storm of ink. She wants to blame it on the dark winter months, the cold and the hiding sun. She always feels so much better in spring, when the leaves shoot from the tips of branches, when flowers grow and unfurl, the sky so blue that not even the concrete highrises can dim it, the rain crisp and clean. Her nose gets stuffy with pollen, but it's worth it for the heat, the fresh breeze, the thrum of quiet life around her. 

But she knows it's not the weather making her feel like this. 

It's silly. Frustrating. Things have gotten _better_ with her dad. He's around more, semi-sober. He’s at the bars less, he asks how school is in stilted Greek, like the questions make him forget his own mother tongue. She has Rose and Jack, two people who care about her. She has a second home with the Williams and all their generosity and kindness. If anything, Lena should be feeling _grateful_ , appreciative. 

Anger isn’t something she feels often, but she’s angry with herself. 

Lena knows, no matter how much she wants to deny it, that they’re all things that won’t last. If she’s being honest, she knows it won’t be long until her dad begins to drink heavily again, when his attempts at good humour will vanish and she’ll be living with a ravenous bear coming out of a short hibernation. Rose will move on, she’ll forget about her as she trains and goes off to college and Lena is left behind. And Jack… He’ll move on, too. Why wouldn’t he? 

She shakes her head when she goes into the editing room of the school paper—a repurposed classroom with a half-dozen computers against the wall with old front pages in cheap frames hanging above them. Newspapers have such an enticing scent. Ink, pulp and something that reminds her of a forest she’s only visited in photographs. It’s like inhaling velvet, and she relaxes when she sets her bag down and greets everyone. Despite her not being the greatest sports photographer, people are happy to see her. And, as she smiles and shows them the photos she’s taken, she makes herself forget, bury her uneasy truths. When has it ever helped her? Anticipating the blow is almost as bad as the pain of impact and, right now, she’d rather not see them coming. 

So, that’s what Lena does. She puts it all behind a thick, impenetrable wall. A wall nothing can break. The pressure on her chest eases, the hooks dislodge. 

_I just need to sleep and tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow is always better._

She holds the thought close, lets it be her guiding star. 

Distracted when the meeting ends, she summons the energy she’ll need to walk home alone in the cold. Her dad said he was making dinner, but she wishes she knew if he went shopping or not. If she remembers right, there's a sale on chicken at the store, there might be some if she gets there soon. Then—

“Uh, hey, Lena—why don’t you hang back for a sec.” 

She stops at the doorway and looks back to see it’s just Antonio left. His hands buried in his jean pockets before taking them out and crossing his arms, he seems nervous to Lena. He's never asked her to stay unless there's a game happening, but it's Monday. 

“What’s up?” she asks, fingers worrying over the strap of her backpack. “Is it the photos? I can go back and—”

He shakes his head. “What? No, no—the photos are great.” She's relieved and smiles easier as he approaches. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at his feet. “Um… So, Valentine’s is in a couple of days.” He finally looks up, gazing at her significantly. She almost forgot Valentine's is so close, she's never really had a reason to note it, and she stares back, curious but not knowing what he means. He chuckles, uncertain. “Ah… Jesus, help a guy out.” 

Her eyes wander from him to around the room, looking for the answer—some sort of prompt—but finds none. “I don’t...?”

His hands run down his face and he sighs, shaking his head as if to clear it. His Adam's apple dips as he swallows. “Look, um—I think you… I think you’re great. Pretty and passionate and—shit, I'm bad at this," he laughs before turning serious, his brown eyes wide and earnest. "Do you… Uh, would you wanna go out with me on Friday?” 

Cheeks burning, she doesn't think she heard him right. She must not have. “Out?” 

He laughs nervously, the noise catching in his throat. She’s never seen him like this. Antonio is usually so cool and calm, sure of himself. Her own anxiety rises, a fluttering, erratic bird loose in her chest. 

“Y’know…" he stares at his feet again, hand running through his thick, dark hair, his voice cracking ever so slightly, "on a date.” 

_Huh?_

She's gobsmacked. Never would she have thought he liked her that way—he’s always been someone she looks up to, someone she wants to impress. She feels as awkward as he does, her voice momentarily lost. “Oh, Antonio—”

“Tony,” he corrects, grinning a little wider. “You can call me Tony. Everyone else does.” 

Nodding, she smiles, the back of her neck hot. She resists the urge to hide her mouth behind the collar of her sweater. “Th-Thank you, you’re really kind, but…” Lena doesn’t know what to tell him, if she should be honest. Hurting his feelings is the last thing she wants, but this has never happened to her. What is she supposed to say? Telling him yes wouldn’t be fair, she can’t be who he’d want. Panic replaces the anxiety, her heart beating too fast, hammering against her ribs. “I—I’m really sorry, dating kind of… scares me and—” No, no—she can’t tell him that. She can’t tell him _why_ she’s scared. “You’re a great person, but I’m… I don’t think I’m ready.” Mustering the courage to look up, she regrets it. He must be mad. He must be. She cowers back, her voice shaking, “I-Is that okay?”

Tony makes no move to come closer, to touch her. He sighs, his shoulders dropping, “Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but you don’t have to be sorry. If you’re not ready, then I respect that. No worries, okay?” This is almost more confusing than him asking her out. He doesn’t seem angry at all. She finds disappointment and nothing else, but the air won’t leave her lungs. “Maybe we could hang out more? As friends?” 

He seems hopeful now, genuine. This isn’t like when she was stuck in the closet with Riley, those awful nights in her room when her dad was at his worst. Tony’s listening. Tears threaten to come with her relief, but she holds them back. 

“I’d really like that.” Her smile feels like the first real one she’s given in weeks, her heart lighter. She feels more sure of herself, sure of Tony. It doesn’t feel dangerous to give him a quick hug and a small kiss on the cheek. It’s what she does for all of her friends (save for Jack—he isn’t big on affection, he made that clear pretty early on), and she’s happy she made one more. “I’ll see you later?” 

His disappointment is gone, and Tony beams at her. He’s usually so serious, but Lena likes the expression on him. “Yeah. Sounds great.” 

The constant exhaustion that’s weighed down her steps lifts when she waves goodbye. Her bones aren’t as weary, the fog clears. She begins to look forward to dinner with her dad, her mouth watering at the thought of the tomatoes and feta cheese and spearmint. Her dad used to cook all the time, back when things were good. Maybe today isn’t as bad as she made it out to be, it’s just a bump heralding better things ahead. 

_See? You were being negative for nothing. Everything’s fine. Everything will be fine._

Humming when she gets to her locker to slip on her jacket, the school is just about empty. No one likes hanging around after the last bell rings, and only a few students and teachers pass her by. Her imagination is back, her appetite ignited. She knows she doesn’t have the ingredients at home, but she could pick up a few things and make _baklava_. That would make tonight even better. Her dad might even smile and tell her she did a good job. She can taste the honey already, the sticky sweetness on her lips, the rich almonds on her tongue.

Lena gasps when someone taps her shoulder. She spins around too fast, her back hitting her open locker door. “Jack! I didn’t know you were still here,” she says, out of breath. He's wearing his black jacket, his hood down and hands buried in his pockets. Rubbing the sore spot on her shoulder, she’s about to ask him about detention and how much trouble he’s in this time when she catches the look in his eyes. She thought he’d be happy to see her—like he did when she ran into him at lunch—giving her his crooked grin, the anger fading and his eyes lightening. It’s something he only does with her, but he seems… different _._

Jack doesn't look happy at all. Something has eclipsed it. Something dark. 

“Yeah… forgot something.” His jaw works back and forth, eyes narrowing. “Who’s that?” he asks, motioning to the school newspaper room with a tilt of his head. 

The questions she had forgotten, she looks over his shoulder, her brows furrowed. “Wh—do you mean Tony? He’s the editor at the paper and my frie—”

“You’re in the habit of making out with your boss, then?” His voice is rough, a near growl. The hairs on the nape of her neck rise painfully. 

“What?” She laughs to hide her bewilderment, but it doesn’t even fool her. There’s nowhere to back up—she’s already against her locker. “I—I wasn’t—”

“Then _what_ was it? ‘Cause it looked like _something_ to me.”

He’s advancing, his body shaking, jaw clenched tight. His chest is almost against hers, pressing close until she can’t get around him. Her breathing comes in shallow pants.

‘Jack—” Lips trembling, she tries to control her voice, but she can’t make it louder than a hoarse whisper. “I-I—you… you’re scaring me—”

Eyes rolling upward, he laughs, mirthless. Lena's never heard him make that kind of sound before. Something so mean. “This something you do with _every_ guy you know or am I just, ah... _crazy?”_ Each word is guttural, low, terrifying. 

_‘Eísai pórni psématos.’_

_You’re a lying whore._

She isn’t. _She isn’t._ She was being _nice_ —isn’t that what friends do? What did she do wrong? 

Tears threaten to come, and she can't swallow them down. "I—I don't know—" 

He grabs her by the arms, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and snarls, "If you say _I don't know what you're talking about,_ I won't be, uh, _happy._ " 

_No, no_ —she needs to make him understand. Tony’s only a friend, she doesn’t like him that way. He can’t be angry with her— _he can’t he can’t he can’t—_

"I-It's not like that—"

She bites her tongue when he shakes her once, hard. Iron replaces the taste of honey and almonds she imagined just a minute before.

His lips are so close to hers, but she doesn't have the illusion that he's leaning in for a kiss. Teeth sharp and bared, she's more afraid he's going to bite her. "Then what _is_ it like, Lena, hmm? _Enlighten me._ "

The consonants are sharp as he speaks them, cracking like a whip when they leave his mouth, his breath hot like steam pouring out of a dragon's nose. She flinches. Burning tears spill over her lashes and trail down her cheek. Why did she make him angry? Why does she ruin _everything_? 

“T-Tony—" She whimpers quietly when his thumbs dig in, but he doesn't stop. The words don't want to come, but she needs to try. "He—he asked m-me out, but I—I said n-no, and—” 

As soon as he was there, almost crushing her into the locker, Jack backs up, releasing her arms. Searing pressure in the shape of his hands is left behind. 

"You told him no?" 

He sounds calmer now, like a different person. Air shuddering in her lungs, she nods. The tears come harder and she can't bear to look at him. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… didn’t mean to make you angry...” she whispers, her voice choked.

Flinching when he comes close again, he pushes her hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes her cheek, trailing down to her jaw. His touch is warm, electrifying and—if she didn’t know better—dangerous. Different than when he touched her skin that night. “I’m not angry, shortie," he says softly. She wants to believe him, but she's afraid. Afraid that he thinks of her like her dad does. Afraid that he'll stop being her friend. Afraid that one of the few people who matter most will hurt her, too. “You just… _worry_ me sometimes, is all. Don’t cry," he murmurs, his mouth close to the shell of her ear. She shivers without meaning to, her cheek pressing into his hand. The tears and shaking don't stop, even when she nods. She closes her eyes, mouth shut tight to keep herself from hiccuping. “Hey, c’mere.” 

Jack does something he never has before: He wraps his arms around Lena in a hug. Her head is against his chest, their stomachs flush. She's too upset to be embarrassed, to think about who might be watching. Lean and his muscles corded, hugging Jack isn't at all like hugging Rose. His is more all-encompassing, as if he means to absorb her body into his. Where Rose's are soft and familiar, it's like he doesn't want to let her go. It's more demanding and rough, but it feels… _nice_. There's desperation here, a need she doesn't feel from Rose. Hesitating, she returns it, her arms wrapping around his back as his fingers bury themselves in her hair, the tips grazing her scalp and working down to rest on her lower back, keeping her close. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, melting into him without realizing, the tension leaving. Even through their jackets, being close to Jack is like sitting next to a roaring fire, just on the edge of being burned. 

“You just have a big heart, don’t you?” Goosebumps break out across her skin when his finger traces the back of her skull, the ridges of her spine. “It’s okay,” he says before she can summon a reply. She doesn't know why he said it that way—when he was talking about her heart. Like it's… something he thinks of fondly, covetous in the same manner a reverent priest might talk about the treasures of heaven or a wayward lamb making its way back to God. But there is nothing holy here. 

Slowly he pulls away, and then it's like he was never angry at all, like he never touched her and this was all part of a bad, waking dream. Off-balance and reeling, her tears have stopped, her nose stuffy. Expression placid and undisturbed, Lena can't tell what he's thinking. The fiery, second self is quiet, hidden. She never wants to see it again.

“C’mon, we’ll grab a hot chocolate or something on the way home. Sound good?” he asks casually. 

Lulled by exhaustion, she nods slowly. She doesn't feel anything, steeped in a pit of quicksand swallowing her feet, stealing everything but the air she breathes.

“Good girl.”

He grins, but, try as she might, she can't find kindness in it. Unease churns in her stomach.

She lets Jack guide her, giving him a small smile when he offers her a butterscotch candy from his pocket. They're his favourite, another rare gesture. He never admits much of anything out loud, but the action speaks volumes. She quells her fear, rationalizes it. Jack is the one who helped her, stitched her back and kept her from getting sick, brought her dinner and checked on her every night for a week while she was healing, reapplied her bandages and helped keep them clean. He's the one who spends time with her, wants to know her—he doesn't want to leave her. What is all of that if not fed by good intentions? She has to believe they are. They must be. 

Aren’t they? 


	6. Charm II

_Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved.  
Still, there is this horror at being left behind._

Michael Cunningham, from “The Hours”

* * *

Cold drafts swirl in the dark corners of the basement, gently sneaking underfoot to slide up the back of her sweater and exhale on her spine.

Lena's almost nodding off, her chin propped on her unsteady hand. When she looks down and rubs her thumb over the fabric of her sweater to trace the patterns, she can't focus on the golden arrowheads and pink serpentine shapes and blue waves, the rise and fall of each stitch, the frayed hem and worn holes in the cuffs. Her eyelids droop until she digs her nails into her thigh hard enough to indent the skin. This hasn’t happened to her before. Sleep has always been a gateway of reprieve, an opening to a land of dreams, worlds brighter and gentler than hers. But she hasn't been dreaming. Sleep has eluded her for a week. The gates are closed, a piece of her missing with it. 

She's going to cancel her evening plans with Rose and Djamal; she can't sit through a two-hour movie. She doesn't want to tell Rose why she's so exhausted, why she can't sleep. Lying is something she strives to avoid, but sometimes it's easier than facing her disappointment, her worry. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, head leaden. 

"Lena." 

She absently notes how Mr. Nakamura's tortoiseshell glasses have slid halfway down the narrow bridge of his nose. 

"Lena?"

She blinks. The whole class has turned her way. She wishes she could disappear, shrink in her chair until she's smaller than the flecks of dust pirouetting past the warm amber light of the projector. 

"Sorry, what's the question?" she asks, timid.

His mouth presses into a thin line, his hair a full field of thin shafts of wheatgrass under the warm, refracted light. He sighs, wiping his hands on the green _tenugui_ with overlapping blue waves he keeps in the inside pocket of his brown tweed jacket, the patches on the elbows a matching shade of aged pine. He told her the name of the pattern once, she thinks it’s _seigaiha_ , but she can’t recall now.

"If you'd listened the first time I called on you, I wouldn't have to repeat myself three times." She opens her mouth to apologize, but he continues on, sliding a new translucent picture onto the glass of the projector. "We'll talk after class." 

The kids beside her snicker. Lena wishes the floor would open up and swallow her. 

_I should've called in sick_ , she thinks. Her thumbnail bites into the cuff of her over-long sleeve, deepening the existing tears. 

She's been looking forward to today’s lesson for weeks. This unit is on the ethics of choosing human subjects, how a title for a photo can be just as much a description as a guide to interpret meaning, and, most importantly to Lena, about the relationship between the photographer, the photographed, and the viewer. She feels like she's almost missed everything important. Her stomach sinks at the thought. 

The photo projected on the white sheet hanging at the front of the room is one she recognizes from a photography book she bought secondhand last year from Griffin's Corner Shop. It’s a shirtless, tattoo-covered man sitting at a bar table. His arms are lean and crossed over one another, the permanent symbols adorning his skin interlocked to create a dense motif. Winged creatures, insects, _Dia de los Muertos_ skulls, indecipherable text, bursts of stars and winking eyes. The tattoos aren't limited to his chest and arms. Many cover his face. His temples, forehead, cheeks, around his eyes. His gaze peers into her through time and space, opaque and all-knowing like he's sitting silently before them, examining each in turn. The photo was taken over thirty years ago, the man and his dark, big hair and black eyes is probably dead by now—but it doesn't dampen his presence. Her gaze is fixed on the eagle decorating his chest, the individual feathers and contrast of greys, the sharp beak and bared talons reaching for unseen prey. 

Mr. Nakamura’s voice, usually crisp and clear with his accent, sounds very far away as he changes the slide. “Diane Arbus wanted her subjects to be aware of her, and for herself to be reflected through them.” The man is gone, replaced with a set of twins. Their hair is dark, their outfits match. One smiles and the other is pensive. “She was troubled, but many great artists often are, and she focused on the marginalized. ‘The freaks,’ as she is famous for saying. Her titles are vivid and descriptive, often centred on the subject. How is that different from the other photographers we’ve studied?” 

Miles Newfeld, a confident boy with salt-white hair and buttermilk skin, raises his hand. Lena writes down the question and does her best to catch his answer, but he seems far away, too. Her movements are slow and lazy, her scrawl is even messier than usual, barely legible and ink-smudged. She stares at the few notes she’s managed to take in the last forty minutes. It isn’t much. Usually, she’d have pages filled for each class, her head brimming with ideas. She can’t seem to shake the one thought shackling her mind: Her dad’s been missing for two days. That’s always the first sign. 

_No, no—it’ll be fine. He’ll come home. He always does._

She doesn’t know when that will be. Things were fine on Monday. How did it backslide so quickly? Today’s Friday, there’s a game on, and it's Valentine's. In all likelihood, she won’t see him until late on Sunday, maybe Monday. 

No, she can’t think about that. Not right now. She tries to focus on what Mr. Nakamura’s saying, even as his voice gets dimmer and dimmer. After a great deal of effort, she remembers the quote he mentioned; she memorized it in her freshman year. 

_‘Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.’_

It didn’t make sense to her at the time. She can't decide who the freaks are and aren’t meant to be, which category she falls into. It doesn’t feel like she’s passed any test at all. She doesn’t feel rich. She doesn’t feel any less uncertain of what the future holds. Does that mean she isn’t one? But that doesn’t make sense, either. Wouldn’t it be easier for her to make friends, to not feel so alone? Maybe there’s a space of in-betweens everyone overlooks, a dark space where people like her must wait for life to decide in which category they belong. 

Or maybe she’ll never leave it at all. Maybe it’s where she’ll always stay. 

Mr. Nakamura moves on to other portrait photographers, August Sanders and Walker Evans and Rineke Dijkstra, when Lena loses focus again. This is her last class of the day, her favourite one, and yet she can’t think beyond how much she wants to crawl into bed and get warm. She’s barely alert when he hands out a pink-coloured piece of paper with their assignment due for next week’s critique, and what would usually excite her barely feels like anything more than a dull tap against her chest. 

She’s slow to gather her things when class ends, tucking away her notebook and her blue, Pepsi can pencil case—one of Jack’s gifts to her for Christmas—into her backpack. It’s not until everyone else is gone that she stands at Mr. Nakamura's desk, waiting for him to turn off the projector and carefully store the translucent, flimsy slides back in their proper manilla envelope. He's more organized than any person she's ever known. His files are neat and his writing precise, some labels in English and others in Japanese. Technically, he should've retired five years ago, but he stays on part-time. Whether it is because he has nothing else to fill his days or because he loves the craft too much doesn't matter to Lena. 

“You’re out of sorts this week.” He’s behind her, his thin arms straining when he lifts up the projector. Lena moves to help, but he shakes his head, grunting softly when he places it on the shelf. His shuffle is slow, his back stiff as he dabs his forehead with his _tenugui_ , suppressing a wince when he sits behind his desk. His arthritis is always worse in winter. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He waves away her apology, opening a desk drawer and filing the envelope. His slender fingers move through the tabs methodically, the backs of his hands dotted with dark age spots and his knuckles gnarled with rheumatism. “Don’t be sorry. We can only try our best to be better next time.” Mr. Nakamura gives her a rare smile. Relief loosens the pressure in her chest. 

“I… I guess I haven’t been sleeping well for the last while. I'll be better by Monday, good as new.”

He stares for a moment and exhales heavily, his eyes sad. “Should I ask Marissa to make an appointment with you?” 

Cheeks burning, she wraps her arms around herself. Marissa Onyshko is the school guidance counsellor. She’s already been to see her several times in the last two years. The pressure returns when she thinks of how their last session went. 

“No, it’s okay,” she says, hoping he won't insist.

“You can’t do well if _you’re_ not well, Lena.” His cheekbones are high and severe, but they’ve rounded with age, his eyes serious but always kind underneath. He sighs, shaking his head slightly. “Sleep, and you can have an extension on the critique if you need. Just hand it in by next Friday. You’re a talented young lady. I’d hate to see you lose focus.” 

Now her cheeks are warm for an entirely different reason. She blames it on the exhaustion, but tears sting the back of her eyes as she smiles. “I won’t.” 

That's the one dream she'll never lose sight of. Mr. Nakamura is harder on her, but it’s because he expects more. More of _her._ Because he knows she can do it, even if she doesn’t always believe the same. 

“Good.” He nods, the corners of his mouth tipping upward. Rising with effort from his chair, he slides on his grey wool topcoat before taking his cane. He leans on it more heavily than he did when class started. “Get some rest. I know I plan on doing the same.” 

Lena walks with him up the stairs, both to keep him company and to ensure he doesn’t stumble. He's an inch shorter than her, his body shrunken in his age. If the basement wasn’t the only place big enough for the photography studio and darkroom, she would have suggested moving classrooms back in freshman year. They don’t have elevators, nor the funding to install any, but Mr. Nakamura is quick to shuffle down the busy hall when they reach the top, smacking students in the leg with his cane when they crowd too close. 

The fog returns when she stands at her locker. She should find Rose before her training session starts. Her and Djamal are supposed to walk to Lena's place after so they can take a bus to the theatre, but Lena can’t seem to move. She’s staring at the polaroid of her and Rose from Christmas three years ago. It's taped up alongside reprints of her favourite photos and sticky notes with reminders about assignments and appointments. They’re wearing the matching knitted sweaters Taniel made for them, and Zahra and Shani look so small in the background. Lena’s smile is big, unabashed and full of energy. Rose’s eyes are bright and the gap between her teeth a little more pronounced. Rose didn’t care about it back then. She used to be proud of it before they started high school. Junior high feels like another lifetime ago. 

Rubbing her eyes, she almost doesn’t register Jack leaning on the wall of lockers when she shuts hers. Maybe this has been the dream all along—she never got up this morning and she's still buried under her blankets, the dewy air settling on her skin as the outside draft cools her room. Her eyelids are heavy, but she blinks three times before she realizes he _is_ real. This is real. 

His hair is snow-damp and wavier than usual, the curls at his temples tight spirals. He's wearing a different jacket today—a beat-up denim bomber instead of his usual black down coat. His pants are torn at the knees, the exposed skin bright red against pale white. He doesn’t seem happy, but he doesn’t seem _un_ happy, either. 

"You look nice,” he says. 

"Oh. Um, thanks." 

Her fingers smooth her hair back before going to their familiar place at her throat, the chain of her necklace. She didn’t have the energy to wash her hair last night, so she styled it into a messy, braided bun at the nape of her neck, the flyaways kept in check with shimmering purple butterfly clips, her favourites. The oversized sweater is as much to keep her warm as it is to hide the fading bruises on her arms. She knows she doesn’t look nice—this is Jack’s way of saying sorry without having to actually say it aloud. Her dad’s good at this, too. 

_Stop it, Lena._

“What are these from?” he asks. She flinches when his thumb brushes her cheek, the calloused pad skirting the dark circles around her eyes. Jack drops his hand quickly, his brows furrowed. They’re silent for a moment. Eyes on his feet as his hands twitch, he rolls his shoulders. “Still not sleeping?”

“No, not really.” 

She’s been avoiding him since Monday. Voicing her concerns has never been something she's good at; she never learned how. In truth, she's afraid of what he'll say if she brings it up, so she ignores her doubts, what keeps her awake at night. Or, she's tried.

His boots scuff the floor; his hands clench into fists before they relax, hanging loose at his sides. "C'mon, I wanted to show you something."

He's smiling, but he doesn't have the same self-assuredness, the confidence. Jack seems hesitant, unsure. 

"What is it?" she asks, her voice a bit warmer than before. 

"Tends to ruin the whole element of surprise if I spoil it now, doesn't it?" His laugh is deep, his grin lopsided. Lena finds herself smiling back, nodding in acquiescence. 

When he's like this, it's as if she imagined what happened on Monday. If it wasn't for her arms, she might have. That was the first time she's ever been scared of Jack, and she needs to know it'll be the last. She just doesn't know how to ask. 

He tells her about his week, how he has two months of detention now instead of one because he skipped almost every afternoon between today and Monday. If theirs was a school that cared, they'd have one of the security guards escort him from class to class, but it isn't, and Lena can only snort and roll her eyes at him. Scolding does nothing, and, usually, Lena would try to find opportunities to encourage him to try, but she barely has the energy to listen. Like Mr. Nakamura's voice, Jack's seems impossibly far away, too. 

Why, then, are the voices they pass so clear? 

"Did you hear about Tony?" 

Camille McPherson and Maya Reyes, both juniors, sit at one of the round, cement tables in the foyer. Camille is smacking gum in her mouth, her bleach blonde hair in a high ponytail and her midriff bared, her sweater a size too small. 

"He got jumped yesterday." 

Lena stops walking, forgetting where she is and what she was doing. 

"Seriously?" Maya asks, leaning forward on her elbows with interest, her hands buried in her thick brown curls as she pulls them away from her face. Her lips press together in doubt, one brow raised. 

"Yeah, someone got him good—" 

"Um, excuse me.” Lena's courage withers under the attention of the girls, their looks of annoyance. She swallows. “Are you talking about Tony Mendez? He's a friend." 

The girls exchange glances. Camille's trying not to smile.

“You didn’t hear?” Lena shakes her head, vertigo swelling the floor under her feet. “He was walking home and someone jumped him. He fought back and he’s… well.” Camille trails off as though she’s uncomfortable, but her green eyes are bright, feverish. 

“Is he okay?” Lena asks, sidestepping Jack when he stands beside her.

Camille shrugs and blows a bubble with her gum. Lena jumps when it pops against her full lips. “Dunno. His face is pretty fucked.” 

The whole world goes quiet. She's trapped in a vacuum. Air doesn't fill her lungs. She can't feel the beating of her own heart. Cold, liquid tendrils of frost pierce her skin, flood her veins.

"I have to go." 

"Lena—" 

She doesn't listen to Jack. 

Classes ended fifteen minutes ago—he could be headed home. Or is he too injured to be here in the first place? She didn't think to ask—but it doesn't matter; she doesn't know his phone number or where he lives. His locker is by the science labs, but she doesn't find him there. Dalton Harris, Tamara James, and Becky Ngan are next to the physics room arguing about some kind of project or formula; Lena only knows one other place to check. 

“Tony?” She calls when she knocks on the door of the school newspaper room, her mind blank as to how she made the journey here. The door is shut, but light pools underneath. Hearing nothing, she raises her fist to knock again when the door opens. Briefly, she thinks this really isn't a dream but a nightmare. Or, perhaps not. A nightmare would be kinder; she'd have the comfort of waking. 

“Oh my God,” she gasps, her hand clapping over her mouth.

Camille is right. His bottom lip scabbed from where it split open, the left side of his face a mess of swelling and bruises, his eye ringed with black and the sclera scarlet with burst blood vessels, Tony looks terrible. Worst of all is the cut on his neck. It's long but shallow, angry-red and a craggy line running parallel with his jugular. Someone held a knife to his throat. He was one wrong move away from being dead. Tony could have died alone in an alley somewhere. The thought of it almost makes her cry. 

Tony doesn't lift his head, but he backs away when Lena reaches to touch his arm. 

“Leave it.” His tone is flat, borderline hostile. When did this happen? He must be upset, maybe embarrassed. 

“You're hurt—” 

“Lena, _stop it_ ,” he snaps, his face full of anger. 

She doesn't understand. Why is he mad, and why does he look afraid? Lena knows what it's like to be battered and bruised, nursing injuries she can't always hide. She knows, too, how shame can make it feel like drowning in an enclosed tank. Everyone can observe, take notes, express their pity and click their tongues while her lungs scream and she can't breathe. 

“Who did this to you?” she asks, quietly. 

He scoffs, his fingers probing his jaw, wincing at the light contact. “As if you don’t know.” 

She's about to tell him she just heard what happened from Camille, but she stops herself short. Before today, Lena's never heard him sound like this—his words tinged with so much venom. Tony is a sweet person. Serious, yes, but always kind. Blood pools in her feet and she sinks, growing smaller as the world swallows her limbs. This isn't like when she imagines herself at a river, the gentle water lapping at her legs and cooling her skin as her toes bury themselves in the riverbed. It's like she's trapped in the tank, but now it's filled with wet cement. 

“What do you mean?” 

He crosses his arms, muscles jumping with restraint, but even that seems to hurt him. Hissing and cursing under his breath in Spanish, he holds his side and gently massages his ribs. 

“If you didn’t like me _that_ much, you could’ve just—” He stops when he sees Lena’s face. His anger ebbs. “You really don’t know.” 

She shakes her head, unable to speak. Surely, she must be empty, everything gone and a shell left behind, unease left to bloom in her stomach like some fetid flower. The silence is heavy between them. Why did Tony think she’d know who attacked him? She doesn’t know anyone capable of this. 

His shoulders sag like a great weight has been placed on them. Each bruise is a distinct watermark imprinted in his brown skin, a pattern of knuckles and pain. “We don’t have the budget for two photographers anymore, and… we’re sticking with Charlie.” 

Whiplashed, Lena almost convinces herself she heard him wrong. It’s too much like when her dad slapped her for the first time when she was eleven, the sting of his hand meeting her cheek as her body failed and she stared off into space, one life ending as another began. 

“What?” 

She doesn’t sound like herself. The voice is too quiet, like it belongs to someone younger. 

“We can’t keep you on anymore.” Tony is just as quiet as she is, but his words land like a blow to the stomach. 

_No. Oh no._

“Tony, if I did something… please, tell me.” 

He doesn’t turn. His shoulders hunch.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice breaks; she steadies herself against the wall. “I… How am I going to—”

“Not my problem. I’m sorry, Lena.” He faces her way without lifting his head, his expression hardened. There's something visible underneath: Terror. 

“Is this my fault?” She feels so small, so very far away. 

Tony shrugs on his coat, hissing when he has to move his arm back, and he pulls on the gloves he’d leant her just a few months before. “Maybe you should be asking your _friend_.”

Lena is motionless, uncomprehending. What friend of hers would know anything about this? Surely none of them. They couldn't do this, she couldn't know anyone who'd do this. Who would want to inflict this kind of hurt onto another? 

But then she remembers Jack’s anger, his rage. She remembers her fear, the bruises on her arm. 

Acid churns in her stomach. She feels sick, her heart dropping low in her belly. He… he can’t mean Jack. It can’t be him. That doesn’t make sense.

“You need to leave.” He sounds as tired as she feels, like he might start crying, too. “Please.”

Lena knows where she isn't wanted. Nodding, she listens, the world out of focus. She wanders, aimless. 

_What am I gonna do?_

Blood stilled in her veins, she doesn’t know how she moves from one point to another. The school becomes a maze made of too-bright halls and rusted water fountains and beat-up lockers and syrup-sticky linoleum floors that suck on the soles of her boots. She has nowhere to go. She can’t breathe. 

_It’s not true. It can’t be true._

When she blinks, Lena finds herself in front of the gym. Rose should be here for training. She'll know what to do. 

Wiping her damp hands on her jeans, she slips past the door of the side entrance to the gym. She’s in a short hallway. To the left are the staircase and girls change rooms, and the boys are to the right. Ahead are the double doors leading to the main gym with its game lines faded and stripped and the wood floors in desperate need of varnishing. The varsity basketball team is practicing, one group running laps and the other burpees as their coaches yell at them to go faster, do better, tighten their form. There’s no sign of Rose. 

_She might be in the mezzanine._

"Lena?" 

She stops just as she's starting up the stairs. Rose is by the changeroom entrance in a bright pink hoodie and black running shorts, her lean calf pressed to the back of her thigh as she stretches. Ayesha is beside her, working her hair into a careful ponytail. 

"What're you doing here?" 

“Do you have a minute?" Lena asks.

Ayesha bounces from one foot to the other, hands on her hips and her mouth twisted to the side. 

"Well…" Rose looks from her wristwatch to Ayesha. 

“Coach is already pissed,” Ayesha says, apologetic. She adjusts her shirt, twisting the oversized fabric into a knot that rests just above the waistline of her shorts. “He blew his lid at Tanner earlier.”

Rose clicks her tongue and shares a look with Ayesha that Lena doesn’t understand. "Sorry, we’re late for practice. Fill me in tonight, we'll talk then." Rose joins Lena on the stairs, smiling and giving her arm a brief squeeze before taking the stairs two at a time. Ayesha outpaces her, her legs strong even though Rose has four inches on her. 

"I can't do the movie tonight," Lena calls up, her voice choked. She wants her to ask why, to ask if everything's alright. 

Rose glances back, disappointed. "Oh. Okay." Her brows furrow in worry. “Did something—”

“If we don’t go right now, he’s gonna make us stay late running laps.” 

Ayesha tugs on Rose’s arm, humming impatiently. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" 

She doesn't wait for Lena to reply before Ayesha tugs her through the door and then she's gone, and Lena is alone. 

She stands on the stairs, unmoving. It could be five minutes, it could be an hour. Lena can’t bring herself to move forward, to acknowledge what’s happening as reality. A peculiar feeling takes hold. It grips her throat, its thumb pressing into her trachea. Numb. That’s the only way Lena can describe it. A lack of feeling. Like her spinal cord has been severed at the neck. Her skin is swollen, thick and foreign. 

_What am I going to do?_

When she gets to the front foyer of the school, the tears come. She sits on a concrete bench by the outer door, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. Her shoulders shake as she holds in her sobs; her teeth almost pierce her bottom lip. She's lost—she's lost something important. Potential friendship. The respect of someone she cares about. Someone she looks up to. She has nowhere to go. Going back to an empty apartment is almost as bad as her dad being there. The memory of the home-cooked meal they shared on Monday is a distant one. The honey-sweet _baklava,_ the feta cheese and onion and spearmint are memories from childhood, fuzzy and out of reach. She’s afraid it might have never happened at all.

Maybe it's lost, too. 

“Hey there.” 

_Go away._

It’s not a voice she recognizes. They’re probably not talking to her. She keeps her eyes down as she leans against the wall. The world is dense and unfeeling until something blunt taps her shin. 

“It’s me—Spencer." On the edge of falling into a stupor, she looks at the boy blankly. He has curly brown hair, skin so tanned he must've spent time somewhere warm, eyes like amber resin on moss-covered bark. A pungent cologne does a poor job of masking the scent of pot. Jacket unzipped and the fur-trimmed hood half pulled down, he gives her a toothy grin. "Spencer Nowak. From Riley's party.” 

She recognizes him now—he looks different with clothes on instead of a bedsheet. As she thinks about it, she can't recall if she's seen him around school since October, or if he's in her grade. But there are other things she remembers. She doesn't want to, but she remembers how he got her high, how he encouraged her to chug her drink. She remembers how Riley Cooper talked to her, what he did in the closet. She remembers finding Rose in the upstairs bedroom on top of Djamal, her dress hiked up and thighs bared. 

“Oh, sorry," she forces out, wiping at her cheeks with her sleeve, "I never got your name before.”

“No biggie.” Hands stuck deep in his baggy jeans, his posture is casual, open. Rocking back and forth on the heels of his Vans sneakers, his eyes don't leave her face. “So… what’s wrong? You look like someone just told you that ya got cancer or something.” 

Tears threatening to spill over again, she grabs her bag from the floor and stands. Spencer blocks her way, his brows raised. “Shit, _did_ someone get cancer?”

When she walks around him, he follows. Her temples throb. “No—no, it’s not that. I’m fine. I have to get home.” She doesn't mean to sound rude, but she's too tired to care. Walking faster doesn't do much; his legs are longer than hers. 

“What’s the rush?” He turns on his heel, walking backwards so he can smile apologetically. He means well, but Lena feels like she might throw up on his shoes. “Am I that boring?” 

“Um, it’s not—”

A surge of sparking electricity runs up her spine, the small hairs on her skin surging, exposed wires. The back of her neck burns as if a hand were resting there, the fingers fitting between the knobs of her vertebrae. Any cold she felt before is banished. She's experienced this before. When she walks home, in her bed as she lay in the dark, trying to sleep. 

“Found you.” 

_This_ is a voice she knows. Fear finds her and she can't explain why. The bruises on her arms ache. She thinks of Tony, his pain and anger. 

“Who’s this?” Jack asks her. He walks slowly, each step is measured and heavy. A muscle jumps in his cheek when he comes into view, his jaw clenched tight. 

“Yo, name’s Spencer.” He raises his closed hand for a fist-bump, his eagerness replaced with exaggerated swagger, chin high and eyes heavy-lidded. Jack looks from the outstretched fist to Spencer's face, his eyes narrowed. Spencer has a broader, more athletic build, but Jack is taller and stands like a slouched giant. Spencer lowers his arm and shoves his hands in his pockets again. “Napier, right?” 

Spencer's voice is loud in the empty hall, his smile uneasy. Lena has seen shades of this behaviour from Jack, but never with so much blatant hostility. He is silent, mouth twisted into an ill-hidden sneer. His tongue swipes along the inside of his cheek, the skin moving in a subtle wave. Any other day, she'd intervene, distract Jack and lighten the mood, but she's frozen, her chest tight. 

' _Maybe you should be asking your_ friend.' 

Spencer seems to regain his confidence, leaning against the nearby brick wall and watching for teachers. He lowers his voice, “Heard you’re the kind of guy who might be interested in some… contraband.” He rolls his eyes when Lena looks at him in confusion and Jack glares. “Y’know, cheap phones? Some weed?”

“You heard wrong.” He moves between Spencer and Lena and grabs her by the wrist. She tenses, but his grip is firm, not crushing—not like it had been on Monday. “Let’s go.” 

Spencer laughs, sarcastic. “Pretty sure I didn’t. Aren’t you the guy who—” 

“Shut up," he says, voice dropping into a low growl. It isn't until Lena gasps when he holds her wrist too hard that he lets go and steps back. 

Lena shakes. She thinks of Tony's face. She thinks of the bruises, the black eye. She thinks of the long cut on his throat. 

Hand covering her mouth, she struggles not to whimper when her stomach heaves. 

“Okay, okay—cool your jets, bro.” Spencer holds up his hands placatively. He doesn't understand. Does she? “Hit me up if you change your mind.” 

Saying nothing, Jack pulls her away to the exit, taking her hand this time as he walks too fast for her tired legs.

“Fucking idiot.” Jack's words are laced with vitriol. She barely feels the biting February air, unable to think, unable to breathe. The school parking lot is almost empty. A dozen cars sit buried in snow and the potholes run deep, the cracked pavement covered in ice. He releases her hand when they get to the outer school wall, partially hidden from the street. “What’d he say to you?” he demands.

Jack's too close. She can't stop trembling. Something heavy sits on her ribs, cracking them under the pressure. It whispers dark things in her ear. It tells her to expect pain. 

“N-Nothing—I met him at the Halloween party, and…”

She can't catch her breath. Terror's hand grips her heart. What if Jack… Will something happen to Spencer? Will he come to school beaten to a pulp and afraid of her? Will that be her fault, too? 

“And _what_?” he bites. 

Flinching on instinct, she cowers against the wall, her body angled away from him and arm raised to protect her face. She can't think in terms of rational and irrational. Her lungs scream for air, heart pounding and battering her ribs. 

“What the fuck—” 

She's apologizing over and over, breathless. She didn't mean to make Jack upset. She didn't mean to hurt Tony. She didn't mean to push Rose away. She didn't mean to make her dad hate her, for him to leave. 

Maybe she's worse than a freak. Maybe she's something entirely different. Something worse without realizing. 

" _Lena_." Jack pushes her arms down as she tries to hide. The tears burn, pricking her skin like frostbite. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, why're you crying?”

Her mind is trapped somewhere else—in the dark, the itchy carpet of her living room chafing her bare chest and stomach, her dad's hand on her neck, holding her down, breathing in dust and dirt as her back is torn open, one lash at a time. 

" _I—I can't—_ " She curls inward, folding in half. It's harder to tear her shirt this way. " _Can't breathe—_ " 

He lets her drop into the snowdrift, ice and hard snow shooting up the back of her jacket and dousing her skin, the blazing scars. 

"Stop it," he says. She covers her head with her hands when Jack drops to his haunches, but he doesn't reach to touch her; his hands stay loose on his thighs. "Lena. Look at me and take a big breath." 

He waits until she obeys, his gaze heavy and insistent. Her lungs stutter; her heart beats too fast, blood rushing in her ears and drowning out his voice. But she tries. She takes in the cool, brisk air, shuddering as she exhales. It's easier to breathe when she sees her panic reflected in him, his confusion. 

"Yeah, like that—breathe. Just… Fuck, just calm down." 

Nodding, she pulls up her shirt sleeves and wipes at her eyes, her running nose. When she gets her breath back, she feels incredibly foolish. Ashamed. Like a liar. Guilty. How could she think Jack would ever be like her dad after everything he's done for her? She shouldn't be like this. Why did she even get this worked up? The reason feels so flimsy now.

_Something… something's wrong with me._

Anger comes as the tears start. Her fingers card through her hair until her nails find a home in her scalp, digging deep, fighting the building sobs with pain. 

"Why're you upset?" 

He takes her hands in his, his skin scalding, setting her nerves on fire. But the tingling pain helps, becomes a guide. His thumb brushes the back of her hand, his grip firm but gentle. And just like the first time their skin touched in October, her chest flushes hot, fevered. She can't look at him, see his disappointment, his disgust. Her eyes are fixed on their hands, his small scars and rough skin, the small blond hairs catching the light, how his dwarf hers, how her blood makes her nails look like red-painted frowns. 

“I got fired," she whispers eventually. 

“Fired?”

“From the paper.”

His hold relaxes as he scoffs. “Oh. That’s not a big deal. The paper's dumb anyway. No one reads that shit—nothing to have a fucking panic attack over.”

Slowly, she takes her hands away. They're cold in his absence, the chill all the more vicious for having known warmth in the first place. 

“I won’t be able to buy food anymore.” She feels… hollow now, her insides carved out. It's distinct from being numb. This hurts. She preferred feeling nothing at all. 

"Wait—wait. _What_?" 

“That was how—how I paid the water bill and—and groceries and—” 

Saying it out loud makes it true. There's no hiding from it. She's going to go home, her dad won't be there, and she has all of fifty dollars saved to last until her _theía_ can spare more money. What she made at the paper wasn't much, but it was enough that she didn't have to rely on her dad to eat at least once a day and to have hot showers. Her dad barely covers rent every month with the little he makes; they're one warning away from being evicted. She wonders what will happen if he never comes home, if he borrowed money from the wrong people this time. Her lips tremble. 

“Jack, what am I gonna do?” 

Her eyes are wide when she finally looks up, her vision clouded. But she sees Jack's surprise, how his mouth opens slightly, his brows twisted and uncomprehending. It's gone as quickly as it appeared. His expression smooths, unfeeling.

This is too much. She shouldn't keep burdening him with her problems. Because that's what they are: _her_ problems. 

A headrush nearly topples her when she stands, but she won't make Jack wait out in the cold as she comes apart at the seams. But he's quicker than her, and she keeps her head down as she walks around him. It doesn't matter. Wherever she steps, he's there first. His hands land on her shoulders and holds her still. 

“Things'll work out, shortie." He sounds so sure. She wants to believe him; she wants to believe he has the answers, good intentions. 

_If I don't have him, who's left?_

A sob breaks past the wall she built in her throat and she wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the rigid denim of his jacket. The top of her head just reaches his shoulder, but she feels smaller, translucent. Jack stiffens, his chest still like he dares not breathe before he lays one hand on the top of her head and the other to rest on her back. His hands feel so _big_ —his palm fills the space between her shoulder blades, covers the crown of her skull. They're heavy, tethering her to the ground, holding her together. Through the thick fabric, she can feel the bony indentations of his ribs, the subtle swells and the steady drum of his heart. He's warm, and she is so very tired. 

He clears his throat, stiffening again when he peels her away to hold her at arm's length. Jack doesn't seem to know what to do with his face, struggles to find the right words to say. “Don’t be sad. I’ll… um, I'll help when I can and—”

She shakes her head, hiding her face behind her sleeve as she rubs her eyes like she's a child and not sixteen. “I—I can’t ask you to do that. It’s too much.”

Jack exhales harshly and stoops down so he's level with her. He holds her gaze for a long moment, shards of obsidian softening to brown, the colour of hot chocolate and old pennies and wet bark. 

“I do things because I _want_ to. Not for anything else. It ain't charity, so don't get so worked up. We’ll figure something out, alright?” 

Right now, he's a completely different person than he was on Monday, than just a few minutes ago. The second self is gone as if she invented him. There is nothing brimming underneath, there is no malice. Her head swims, thoughts filter through thickened, cool molasses, but at least the tears have stopped. She gives him a small smile he doesn't return. Full-body shivers erupt on her skin when his thumb brushes her neck as he straightens, each goosebump rigid and pulling against the knit fabric of her sweater, the faded denim of her pants. 

He keeps an arm around her shoulders as they walk, and through her exhaustion, she worries people really will think they're dating—she especially worries if it's Rose who thinks that. But it feels nice to be close to him. She's too tired to walk straight on her own, and so she quietly accepts the support, breathing in the smell of cigarettes clinging to his jacket and the smell of salt and polluted, melting snow showered over the street. Wet slush sticks the bottom cuffs of her jeans, seeps past the faded, torn suede of her boots to soak her socks. Her toes are cold, her nose still runny and blocked, and she tries not to sniffle too loudly. Fuzzy beacons of red and green float below the slabs of ice on the roads, just below the traffic lights, dashing ahead and blinking in and out of being. The sun is above the horizon, bleeding through the buildings around them, refracting off dirty planes of glass and untouched, opalescent sheets of frost. It'll be dark in a couple of hours. The air is at once crisp with cool moisture and heavy with exhaust, the noisy cacophony of cars zooming by and horns honking and loud conversations fills her ears like sharp cotton, and the bounding light reflects all around them, setting the world on fire. 

“So," Jack begins, jostling her lightly when they're three blocks from school, "whaddya say we do something tonight. It’s Valentine’s, and what kind of friend would I be if I left you alone?” If it wasn't for his arm around her, Lena would've stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, left to bump into the other pedestrians, but Jack keeps her moving forward even as a scorching wave of heat starts at the tips of her toes to rush upward and burn her ears. “You don’t wanna be alone, right?” he asks when she doesn't reply. 

She'd almost forgotten again about the holiday, and she really doesn't want to be alone. She wants to sleep, but she can't stand the idea of staying in her apartment for the entire weekend not knowing if her dad will come back, if it's worth calling the closest hospitals. Being with Jack, especially when he's like this, is appealing. Comforting. Unconsciously, she leans into him as she shakes her head, eyes fixed on the sprawling labyrinth of cracked ice and concrete beneath their feet, spiderwebbed and fractured and endless. She misses Jack's smirk, the hunger in his eyes. 

“Good girl. We'll do something fun, take your mind off things. You didn’t eat today, did you?” Embarrassed, she nods, unable to look up. He's said that to her before, _good girl._ And, just like it did then, her stomach does a flip low in her underbelly, an odd tingling radiating outward and clouding her thoughts. It makes her cheeks burn, foreign but not unpleasant. "That's what I thought. I've got a plan, shortie." 

_'Maybe you should be asking your_ friend _.'_

It would be easy to ignore it if she wanted. She could go on believing whatever she tells herself. How many other things has she been willing to do that for? Finally, she looks at Jack, searching for a sign. His freckles are warm spots dotting his cheekbones with the lowering sun, his waves and curls semi-dry and golden, the tip of his nose red. She doesn't see guilt, deception. She doesn't see violence. The feeling in her stomach hardens, turns into a heavy thing. As she glances at him, she wonders if there's a limit to what Jack will tolerate, even from her. She wonders what would happen if she pushed him to find out. 

* * *

The ground has been lost to snow, small, white mountains of it, their slopes crystalline waves made solid and pristine shimmer in the growing dark. Their footprints are blurry, impressions half-defined as the snow crunches underfoot. Cheeks wind-bitten and fingers numb, Lena follows Jack through the railyard, tall engines and empty cars and a concrete wall flanking their sides. 

"How much further?" she asks, teeth chattering. Her mitted hands rub her arms for warmth. 

The corners of his lips twitch upward. "Patience is a virtue, shortie."

She’s baffled at how Jack can stand to have his jacket open and gloves stuffed in his back pocket, but he seems unbothered.

"Doesn't count when it's freezing out." 

He snorts, his breath a cloud of steam when it meets the cool air. "You're the only one who's cold." 

"I have a theory," she says, sticking her hands under her armpits when her fingers start to go numb, "that you have a secret heater hiding under your coat somewhere. Or you're a dragon." 

"Dragon, huh?" He smirks, wanders closer. "Why not a wolf?" he asks in her ear, his breath hot and damp on the back of her neck. It cools quickly and she shivers. 

"Because you don't have nearly enough hair." 

Jack bursts out laughing. It's loud and genuine, a rare thing to witness. He smiles with his whole face, grin impossibly broad and eyes narrowed with mirth rather than suspicion, his edges soften. Usually, he doesn't like to laugh long and with his whole chest, where he feels it in his belly, but Lena loves it. If he were Rose, she'd walk close until their arms brushed against one another and she'd laugh with him. But she knows Jack isn't like Rose. She looks away, her eyes ahead as she calms the confusing thrum in her chest, the fluttering under her skin.

Uptown has faded into crowded square blocks on the horizon, the towering skyscrapers in Midtown are black pillars of shadow against pale blue and buttercup yellow. It's been ten minutes since they got off the train, and at this rate, they won't have much light left. When Jack walked her home and told her to change into something warm, she found him outside a half-hour later with a full backpack and flashlights. He didn't say anything else, and she let herself be led, too tired to pester him with questions when it was clear he had no intention of answering. Her stomach is full from the burgers with too much ketchup and not enough cheese that they grabbed at a street vendor, and the cold keeps the exhaustion at bay.

The concrete wall on their left seems unending. Graffiti-covered and dirty, she can make out familiar gang signs and profanity among the large blocks of colour and crude scribbles. Air thick with whirled-up snow, Lena adjusts her knitted beanie to cover her aching ears.

"I've never been out this way before."

She isn't used to the silence, the only background noise distant cars and the occasional foghorn bellowing miles away. 

"Probably for the best. It's mostly a rat pit." That seems like an understatement. North Point is the industrial centre of Gotham, on the periphery of everything important. If the smog from the nearby coal mill cleared, they'd see Amusement Mile, its ruined Ferris wheel and the broken outline of carnival rides. But black smoke spills out a tall chimney, shrouding the northern shore in fumes that hurt to inhale, almost thick enough to form a thin paste in your mouth if you get too close without a mask. She's glad the wind is in their favour tonight. "Still one of my favourite spots. On really clear nights, you can see the stars," he continues quietly, his eyes skyward. 

Lena has a hard time imagining it. She hasn't seen the stars from Gotham in a very long time. Suddenly, she feels special. This is an important place for Jack. A spot he's sharing with just her. Only her. She warms at the thought. 

Eyes focused on the moon lost in the halo of light above Gotham, she bumps into Jack’s back headfirst, her foot catching in a rigid snowdrift as she stumbles and falls. He looks over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Got two left feet or what?” he asks, smiling wryly. 

She glares, pushing herself into a sitting position and mad about the snow trapped inside her jacket. Any warmth she managed to gather is gone, and she can barely speak as she shivers violently. “You’re a jerk. You could’ve said something—” 

Rolling his eyes, he grabs her by the arms and pulls her to her feet, dusting off her jacket in exaggerated sweeps of his hand. “And _you’re_ grumpy.” She’s about to protest, maybe rib him with an elbow, when he spins her around and directs her head to her left. “Surprise." 

Her indignation forgotten, Lena wraps her mitted hands around Jack’s and bounces in place, grinning so wide it hurts in the cold. "We're going exploring?" 

Jack smiles before he can catch himself. It’s softer, more gentle. Genuine. He hides it quickly, his expression turning sardonic. He shrugs. "Yeah. Been here a few times. No one comes out this way, so I figured we could do something. Just the two of us." 

_Just the two of us._

Heat finds her again. The snow inside her jacket soaks the waistband of her pants, but she doesn’t mind. Jack’s brought them to an old warehouse. It’s nothing like the Sionis steel mill, but it has an appealing charm. Decayed and crumbling, it hasn't known love or care for a long time. Under the blue hour just before sunset, it has a lonely beauty, a sprawled, sleeping giant worn down by weather and time. Divided in two and connected by an enclosed bridge between them, she isn't sure how it's still standing. Its bones must be good, its supports strong. The north side of the roof has collapsed in on itself, and there’s a hole big enough to drive a moped through on the west wall. It looks unstable, bowing under the displaced weight. An old pier hugs the warehouse, the wood waterlogged and stacked high with piles of plywood and lumber and rusted metal barrels. The glass windows bricked over or shattered, corroded pipes turned green with acid rain twisting towards the sky, it's a lasting heirloom of Gotham's industrial beginnings—back when all the city’s exports would come through North Point before winding their way down the rivers to the three islands.

“I love it,” she says, breathless.

“Yeah?” 

She could almost swear he squeezed her hand back. 

“I really do.” Her first instinct is to wrap her arms around him and kiss his cheek—it’s what she’d do if she was with Rose—but she catches herself, remembers what happened on Monday. 

_Am I giving him the wrong idea?_

Even without gloves, his hands are warmer than her mitted ones, and his heat has warmed her like she's bathed in liquid gold, encased her skin in light. 

Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, she lets go and backs away. “You’re sure no one comes out this way?” She reaches into her bag for her camera. They have maybe twenty minutes before their light is completely gone, and she's eager to go inside. 

"Positive."

The warehouse is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. _PROPERTY OF WAYNE ENTERPRISES. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED_ , the signs posted every fifteen feet say in big red letters. Despite the state of the warehouse and there being no surrounding vehicles as far as she can see, Lena doesn’t have the impression the place is completely abandoned. 

Jack’s at the fence, examining the chain-link soldered to the metal support posts. He moves down about eight feet before he pulls on the fence, and Lena’s surprised when it bows upward. “You first.” 

Crawling underneath quickly, she keeps her camera above the snow and gripped tight. She looks for a way to hold it open for Jack, but he doesn’t need the assistance—he maneuvers himself through before she can try. He ignores her as he walks past, his feet leaving spots big enough for Lena to follow through the deep, heavy snow. Despite her best efforts, some finds its way down the top of her boots to bite her ankles. She's slower than he is, stopping every few feet to take photos of the building against the darkening sky. They'll have their flashlights, but she won't be able to take any photos inside—she doesn't have the right kind of flash. Jack's trekking ahead, his shoulders squared by the cut of his jacket, broad and the lines of his body sharp. 

_I don't have any photos of Jack, do I?_

She has entire albums filled with pictures of her and Rose at home, and she remembers what Mr. Nakamura said today; how the relationship between the photographed and photographer are intertwined, speaking to one another. Raising her camera, the plastic is cold against her eye, binding itself to her skin. Night is close, overcoming the light and swallowing the world in shadow, but there's still enough of it left for Jack to stand out from the warehouse. She takes two photos, altering the angle and zoom after each. Framed this way, he looks like the last man on earth, his head bowed against the storm as he heads for shelter. For a moment, it's like they're in the far north, miles and miles away from anyone and everyone, surrounded by a sea of frost and harsh wind, the sharp flakes of snow cutting through skin and fabric to reach bone. Desolate but all their own. A place only they know. Their ruined Eden. 

When she takes her third photo, Jack stops. “Did you just take my picture?” he calls back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable from this distance. 

It's not just the wind pinching her cheeks now. She lowers her camera quickly, struck with the childish urge to hide it behind her back. “No, I was—um, I was t-taking pictures of the dock."

He narrows his eyes, turns in place. Before she can make a better excuse, he's in front of her with an unsettling grin. “Give it here, I got an idea.” 

Before she can answer, he takes it out of her hands and inspects the knobs and buttons.

“Hey!” 

He twists out of the way when she reaches for it, grin broadening. “You take mine and I take yours,” he says, sing-song. His reach is so much longer, but she grips his shoulder and tries jumping to grab it anyway. He laughs at her before grabbing her by the wrist. Leaning down, his nose inches from hers, she becomes the frozen one. “Like I said. I can tell when you’re lying.” She shivers, but it's not from the cold. Jack releases her wrist, his hand sliding down her arm. She took her hair from the braid when she left her apartment to help keep her neck warm, and now Jack's adjusting it around her shoulders, moving her beanie back just so. “Stop fussing. You look pretty.” 

_Pretty?_

He hasn't said that to her before. Not like that.

Eyes dropping to her lips, his free hand takes one of her loose curls and wraps it around his finger, gently tugging before putting it back in place. She stares up at him, speechless. He isn't smiling anymore. 

Playing with the settings, he takes her picture, adjusts them again and takes another. Lena's shown him a few things since she first offered to teach him how her camera worked back in December, and she can't pay attention to see if he's heeded any of her lessons. 

"Where's your sweet smile?" he asks, lowering the camera. There's something underneath the playfulness. A dull shock runs through her when his thumb skirts over her bottom lip to the corner of her mouth, pulling upward. She's felt this before, she just can't remember where. "C'mon. Smile for me." 

She tries, but she isn't sure if she succeeds. His hand returns to the camera, raising it and clicking the shutter button. It's a strange feeling gripping her; she doesn't know what to call it. Vulnerable. Exposed. They're close but not exactly right. This short moment in time, out in the open, wild, wide world is the most intimate thing she's experienced. A shared secret between them. 

She doesn't know how many he takes before he hands the camera back to her, the moment fading with the sun dipping below the horizon. The air, although biting and cold, is heavy with something unspoken. She can't decipher what's meant to be said—if it should be light and funny or if this is deeper, almost sacred. 

_Or maybe you're overthinking it_. 

Jack seems to think so. He's already gone on ahead, leaving her to rush and catch up without tripping in the calf-deep snowbanks. Appraising the hole in the west wall for falling debris, Jack enters first, ducking to avoid a brick outcropping. Lena isn’t far behind. She tucks her camera away and searches for the flashlight Jack gave her on the train ride over. 

Inside the warehouse is a splendour of dark, shining ice and round-arched windows splashing light through cracks in the mortar. The walls, once metal and brick, stain the snow rust-red. Standing in the main holding area and its tall, cavernous expanse reminds Lena inexplicably of the Greek Orthodox Church she went to when she was small. The fallen wood beams a hundred overlapping crucifixes, the open chasm in the roof a more beautiful stained glass with its Tigerlily sky and indigo clouds than anything she’s ever seen. Wandering further into the silent congregation of ruin, they step on hallowed ground, each footprint left in the snow a mark in God’s house. 

_Eftychia_. She remembers that it means contentment, happiness. Lena smiles as her eyes stay fixed above in quiet wonder. She hasn't prayed in a long time, but she has the urge to say one now.

This place doesn’t hold the same feeling of awe and reverence in Jack. He works a path ahead, balancing on a beam, his shoes slick as they slide backward on the icy wood. She shakes her head, eyes landing on a set of stairs to her left. Clicking on her flashlight, she looks up the dilapidated steps, tests one with her weight. It holds, and she climbs. 

The stairs lead to a long hallway spanning the length of the building. A red door stands at the end, its handle gleaming gold. The hall shortens as she walks, compressing like a tightening coil. She places her steps carefully, measuring the strength of each floorboard before giving it her full weight. The beam of her flashlight captures crystalized dust suspended in the air, and a sheer veil of frost rests against the door like a fine etching. 

Ghost stories and urban legend surround the Sionis steel mill. Tales of suicide, lonely people searching for somewhere quiet to die. Disgruntled workers seeking vengeance against tyrannical foremans and coworkers. Children lost in the maze of rooms and pipes, never found again. She isn't sure if this place has any such stories, but there is a heaviness here, a kind of weight that demands consideration. 

Carefully, she twists the handle and opens the door. 

The wind howls through the cracks where rows of brick have crumbled and eroded away, the scant remaining light illuminating a snow-covered desk in the middle of an old office. Empty frames lie facedown on the floor, shards of glass refracting the incandescent glow of the ice beneath it. She expected more, maybe a full office, pictures left behind, but she isn't disappointed. Walking behind the desk, she feels like an explorer in a faraway land as she opens the drawers, searching for some hidden trace of a life that isn't hers. 

"It's empty." Jack's deep voice feels flat in the room, like its walls have absorbed it like it has the water and ice. "Checked the place over a few times."

Lena looks to the floor and the destroyed frames. She has a brief vision of Jack ripping them from their hallowed place and throwing them down in a tirade of quiet, lonely anger. How much has a place like this seen that she hasn't? 

Breaking the quiet feels blasphemous, but there’s too much between them left unsaid. "What did they do here? Before it all shut down." She looks up, her cheeks warming when she finds him staring at her. His lids are heavy as he leans against the doorframe, his gaze unwavering. 

"Not sure. Might've been for fish or transporting oil. They mostly use the East Side Docks now." He paces, languidly making his way to the gap in the wall, his hair thick threads of quicksilver. 

"Who do you think used to work here?" 

She imagines this place alive, filled with men and their burly arms and thick wool coats, and she wonders if it was cold then as it is now, if they had somewhere warm to go home.

"How am I supposed to know?" He sticks a cigarette between his lips. 

"Best guess."

"Some poor bastard who could barely read with too many brats at home. A schmuck who thought it was better than working in the coal factory." He doesn’t have his usual lighter. Instead, he has a pack of matches. A small flame strikes to life with a hissing pop. "Disagree?" he asks, smoke curling out from his mouth, obscuring his eyes in a haze of grey.

She shuts the drawer and clears the desktop with the sleeve of her jacket to reveal the split oak beneath. Even the smell of wood is frozen. "I just think in kinder terms than you do." 

He smiles to himself, chuckles under his breath. "Yeah. That you do." 

Oddly, she hasn’t pushed for him to talk about much in all these months they've been friends, and Jack isn’t one to volunteer information. She doesn’t know anything about his parents other than they’re on bad terms. She knows he spends his time walking and he’s started reading now that she’s been lending him books, but otherwise… Lena realizes there isn’t a lot she knows about Jack. It doesn’t matter how much she’s protested in the past, he’s never let her pay for anything; he always has a wad of cash on him but she’s never asked where it comes from. When they’re together, they talk about her and her life, school and their classmates and teachers, the world and ideas and books and art, but they never talk about him. And yet she feels like she knows him just as well as she does Rose. Does she need more than that to say they're really friends? 

Maybe she should’ve started asking him questions a long time ago. 

It dawns on her that this might be a bad idea—pushing him when it’s just the two of them, far away from anyone who might intervene. But what is she thinking? Jack isn’t like that. She doesn’t need to think that way. She doesn’t. She just needs to be… sensitive. After all, there isn’t anything wrong with asking a friend about themselves. 

"Do you work somewhere?" she asks. 

Jack goes back into the hall, head tilted towards the ceiling as he lets out a long, smoke-filled breath.

 _He really is a dragon._

He keeps his eyes aimed above with the beam of his flashlight with practiced disinterest. "Huh?" 

She hesitates. "It's just… you always have money." 

"So many questions today," he sighs. The planes of his face are sharp carvings of ice, white as bone in the light of the moon, his full lips fading azalea petals after a late spring frost. His skin is smooth and pale, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "Yeah, I have a job. Of sorts." 

His tone conflicts with his choice of words, simultaneously inviting inquiry while warning her against it. Jack’s playing a game. 

"Of sorts?" 

His good humour evaporates like the clouds of smoke dispersing with each exhale. One shoulder rises as he gives her a sidelong glance. "Odds and ends for a few people." 

"Mm-hm," she hums in encouragement. Jack rolls his eyes and huffs. 

"Deliveries. That kind of thing." 

She nods, not really understanding. “Do you like it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, his mind already drifting to other subjects. “It’s work.”

Lena feels like she might as well be talking to one of the walls. It might tell her more than he is. She doesn’t know what else she wants to ask, how she’s going to build up to Tony. 

Something catches her eye. In the corner of the room, underneath a soft pile of dusty snow and scrap, lies some glittering brass thing. She kneels down and takes off her glove. Her fingers find its edges, the heat left in her warming the ice enough to pry it loose.

"Hey, you missed something," she says, holding it above the beam of her flashlight. It’s an old pocket watch. Carefully, she pulls the chain loose from its prison of ice and clears out the dirt from the etchings on the lid. She can’t quite make out the pattern. "Look what I—Jack?"

He’s gone. 

She reaches back and keeps the watch in an interior pocket of her bag before she checks the hall. Jack’s nowhere to be found. It's empty and there’s no set of footprints leading back down to the stairwell.

“Jack?” 

There’s no answer. In a fantastical moment of thought, she almost thinks he’s been carried away. She has a book about this—faeries whisking unsuspecting folk to worlds not their own. But those are stories about Iceland, not Gotham. And Lena can’t see Jack going anywhere he doesn’t want to. 

“Jack!” she calls again. 

A shiver of unease moves down her spine, but she ignores it. This is another part of the game. She can play along. Even if he does have a twisted sense of humour. 

White moonlight flicks by like blades of a fan slicing shadow, spattering patches of light into the dark. She’s cold, the damp air crystalizing on her skin. Breathing into her mitts so the warm air can thaw her cheeks, she searches for Jack in the main holding area. There’s nowhere to hide unless he’s ducked somewhere behind the rubble. But she doubts he's waiting somewhere like a snickering schoolboy. 

_If I was Jack, where would I go…_

Right. That's part of the problem, isn't it? She doesn't know what Jack would and wouldn't do. 

Lena lets instinct lead her, finding a path between the debris. There's a door towards the back, rusted and bent in places like someone went at it with a battering ram. The knob twists but the door stays shut fast. No matter how hard she tugs, she can't make it budge. 

"I'm getting you back for this, I swear," she mutters to herself. She isn't exactly sure _how_ she'll do it, but by God, she will. 

Bracing herself with her foot on the doorframe, she holds her mitts in her teeth as he grips the handle and pulls. The door groans almost as much as she does with the effort. Just when she thinks her arms are going to snap out of their sockets, the door gives and she goes flying back to land on her rear. 

"Dang it," she grumbles, rubbing her tailbone as she pushes herself up. 

_Yep, I'm_ definitely _getting him back for this._

She isn't usually one to be annoyed, and maybe it's because of how little sleep she's had, but she's well on her way to being peeved. 

" _Anóita agória kai ta anóita paichnídia tous_ ," she mutters to herself, just in case he _is_ hanging around somewhere behind her. 

Wincing as she climbs the steeper, more unstable set of stairs, she clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. The walkway is more exposed to the elements than the other side of the building, the ground more slippery, but she continues to be cautious and listens for approaching footsteps, anything other than the sound of her own breathing. 

"Jack? Where are you?" Her echo absorbed by the climbing pillars of ice swallowing the walls, stalactites blown sideways from the force of the wind carrying the spray from the turbulent River Liberty. "This… this isn't funny!" 

The door at the end of the walkway is open, swaying slightly. She doesn't want to go on the other side, to see what lies beyond. Her imagination races ahead of her again, amplifying the groans of the building to wails made by the restless dead. The air is almost noxious; the further she goes, the further she submerges into the blue, into the black. She can almost hear the huffs of some great beast not three feet away, on the other side of the door. 

" _Na eísai gennaia_ ," she whispers. There's comfort in speaking Greek. It doesn't always feel like her language, her culture. Not around her dad, at least. But there is a comfort in knowing her words are entirely her own here, that there's a secret meaning in them that the casual listener won't know, another self in which she can forge a shield. " _Eímai gennaia_." 

Taking a big breath as she approaches the door, she holds her flashlight like she would a club. Just in case. On the count of three, she dashes past the door and looks behind it like she might catch some other intruder. 

But she's alone. 

" _Dóxa to theó_ ," she breathes out in relief, her hand over her hammering heart. It means she'll have to keep searching, but— 

"Got you."

Strong arms wrap her waist and she's pressed up against something hard as she's twisted around like a ragdoll, her feet off the ground as she spins. Lena shrieks and pulls at the arms squeezing her middle until she recognizes the smell of Jack's cigarettes and the deep bass of his laughter.

"What is wrong with you? I was worried!" she shouts, smacking his arms. With her mitts on, she feels more like a disgruntled cat swatting at a dog—largely ineffectual and surely a hilarious sight from a distance. She resists the urge to swing her foot back and kick him in the shin.

"Aw, you trying to confess somethin', shortie?" he asks against the shell of her ear, his chin resting on her shoulder and the cold tip of his nose finding a bare spot of skin on her neck. 

Her body erupts in a mess of sensations—shudders and shivering and an exciting tingling in the tips of her fingers and the lining of her stomach—when his bare hands slide from her waist to her hips. He squeezes, the pads of his thumbs sliding underneath her layers to swipe against her bare skin. He's never touched her like this before. Just like when he called her pretty, she doesn't know how to react to this either. 

_He's just messing with me_. 

"You're the worst," she pants after she squirms away, pulling her jacket down with both hands after she slips off her backpack. 

He's still laughing, his mouth stretched wide with mischief. "And yet you're friends with me." 

She glares, thinking of a retort until she sees a big pile of snow two feet away. Her expression transforms into one of innocence. "I don't know…" She backs towards it, her eyes fixed the opposite way as she pretends to consider things until she reaches down for a handful and throws. Lena manages to catch him by surprise, and her impromptu snowball hits him square in the chest. " _Now_ we're even." 

Lena feels triumphant until Jack's look of surprise ebbs into one of playful menace. He brushes off the snow and cracks his neck. 

"Oh, now you've done it." 

He reaches down to form his own, but Lena's already gone. She's much smaller, but she's faster than Jack in a footrace, and she doesn't plan on losing. She has no idea where she's going, but she feels a surge of pride when she dodges the snowballs Jack throws, squealing as she squeezes through narrow paths and winds around him. He misses her jacket by an inch when she dashes past him, and she'd have outrun him if she didn't slip on an icy piece of metal buried under the snow. 

"You're not the most coordinated, are you?" he pants, smiling down at her from her position on the ground. Her scowl feels less effective when she's flat on her back, and he laughs at her, his chest heaving almost as much as hers is. "Come along now. Don't wanna miss the show." 

He offers a hand and she takes it, but he pulls her up too hard and too fast. Losing her balance, she only has him to hold onto, gripping the wool lapels of his jacket. It's like the first time he hugged her on Monday, when their stomachs were pressed together. With his hands on her arms holding her steady, this feels the same; it has the same hunger. 

A feeling grows in her belly. It’s different from how she feels around Rose. This is charged, a building fire licking the inside of her stomach. 

Stoke or smother? Be consumed or extinguish it and risk losing something else, too? 

_You’re imagining things. We’re just friends. That’s it._

Lena shakes her head, forcing a smile. "Show?" she asks, averting her eyes as she puts some distance between them. 

Jack smirks lazily. “You’ll see.” 

He takes her by the hand, half dragging half ushering her along to one of the outer windows with its glass still intact. "Hey, what're you—"

“Patience, shortie.” 

They’re facing the river. Black waves swell under ice floes. On the distant shore she can see the flickering lights of the suburbs. She doesn’t notice the match in his hand until he strikes it against the brick. It roars bright, the flame dimming as it searches for food, dripping down the match like a drop of dew. His eyes are fixated on it, enthralled. Unbothered by its proximity to his fingers, he doesn't use it to light a new cigarette. There’s a long black string poking through a crack in the window. Wordlessly, she watches as it ignites, the fire zipping out the window and into the night. 

"What happens now?" she asks, searching for a flash in the snow. 

Jack isn't beside her anymore, but she can feel his eyes on her, electric and prickling. She's about to ask again when a high-pitched whistle screeches through the air in a trail of smoke and ends with a loud, whizzing _pop_ and _bang_ —a shower of coloured light and sparks. Her mouth opens in rapture as more follow the first, crackling as they burst and fill the sky. They come in all colours, curuscating light in pink and green and purple and yellow. 

This is _eftychia._ Lena can't remember ever being this happy. Not in a long, long time. 

"Surprise." He's close, but she doesn't want to turn around. She doesn't want the magic to fade, to blink only to find out this was a dream, too. "Like 'em?" 

She nods. Perhaps it's because she's tired and today's been too much, but tears brim along her lashes. 

"You win for making this the best Valentine's ever," she says quietly after the short show of fireworks ends, her voice hoarse. She beams at him. The feeling from before grows, fills her chest. The fire rises. 

His eyes slowly move up and down her frame, head cocked to the side. "Oh? Do I get a reward?" 

"Oh. U-Um, what did you…" He takes a step forward, crowding close. Her tongue thickens in her mouth, head clouding. "Did you have something in mind?" she asks, meek.

She isn't sure if she wants to know the answer.

"Mmm." The sound rumbles in his chest, almost purr-like. He considers for a moment, lost in thought. A wicked smile forms. "I have an idea or two."

There's only an inch between them now, the air charged and waiting for a spark to set them alight. Lena's frozen, but not because she's cold. Their breath mingles, the clouds of condensation dancing together. She doesn't move when the back of his fingers graze her neck as he pushes her hair away from her face. She doesn't think she wants to. There's heat in his touch that stokes her own fire. It's addictive, the same kind of heat one finds laying under the sun on a summer's day. Enlivening as it corrodes, devours. Without the light, Jack's lost his colour—the golden hair turned silver and his skin pale, but his eyes stay the same. They're dark, but they aren't welcoming like Rose's. They call to Lena, beckoning her to follow. He doesn't need the sun to stay warm and bright. He's a source of life all on his own. 

She closes her eyes when he leans in, his thumb stroking her carotid, and his lips brush hers. 

A shattering crash snaps Lena out of whatever spell she was under. There's a flashlight waving loudly from the outside entrance. Her heart climbs into her throat. 

"Hey! You're trespassing on private property," someone shouts. They're wearing a black coat with a neon, reflective vest, their cap brandishing some symbol she can't make out. 

"Well, shortie, we've been made." Jack's laughing, but Lena's paralyzed. They're in so much trouble. What will her dad do when he finds out? Is she going to be arrested? "That's our cue." 

She looks at Jack in panic but he's already ahead of her. Taking her hand again, they sprint for the walkway they came through, and he slings both of their bags over his shoulder before urging her to go faster. 

"Hey! Stop right there!" It's a middle-aged man, a security guard, and he's running after them. Lena thinks about stopping until she sees his baton. "You little fuckers—" 

She runs faster than she has for any gym class she's ever taken. 

They cover ground quickly, both almost slipping on the ice-covered concrete of the first warehouse, but Jack doesn't let them slow down. Lungs burning with every inhale, the cold air like a small spike driving through them, Lena pushes through the pain and discomfort. Jack reaches the fence first, prying it open and only barely getting through himself when the guard lunges for him, barely missing as he tries to catch him by the collar of his jacket. 

"Keep running!" he says, clutching his arm and a few paces behind. 

She can hear the guard yelling, his heavy footsteps thudding against the snow until they're past the train yard, but Lena doesn't stop running until they make it to the L train platform. They've long lost the security guard, but Lena only catches her breath once they're sitting down on the next train. She collapses in her seat, her skin damp with sweat as she coughs, her body hot but her lungs filled with ice. 

"I don't think I've ever been this tired in my life," she gasps, taking off her hat to pull her hair away from her neck. Jack's panting beside her, his legs stretched out and head resting on the train car wall. He's sweating, too; blotches of red paint his skin. 

"Just means you'll sleep good tonight," he forces out with a laugh. 

"I hope so." 

He nods, eyes closed. He's still holding his arm. "You will." 

Lena peels his hand away to see what he's hiding, holding it between hers as her eyes widen. Somewhere along the way, Jack cut his arm open. The denim is torn and stained bright red. She doesn't hesitate and takes off her scarf. Rolling up his sleeve, she wraps it around his forearm. It's pink and old anyway—she can probably get the stain out later. He watches her, not even wincing when she tightens it to keep the pressure against the cut. 

"It's not that deep," he says. The cut is more than six inches long and deep enough to have soaked through both the wool and thick denim. 

"Don't be such a boy about it," she chastises, glaring when he laughs at her. Clicking her tongue, she keeps her focus on his arm, adjusting the scarf so it's not too bulky and she can pull his sleeve down. Her hands linger on his arm. "If you… um, if you bring the jacket to school on Monday, I can mend it for you." 

Jack stops laughing. He looks at her with confusion. "Seriously?"

She nods, unwilling to look up. "I can probably get it done during lunch." 

Unable to find the right words, Jack stays silent, the tops of his ears bright red. His arm rests on his thigh, palm up and fingers splayed. It's like he's inviting her to hold it, but she can't be sure about that. She straightens in her seat, her eyes on the filthy train car floor when she meets the eyes of a man staring at them in a far corner, his teeth rotting and yellow and lip curled in a mean sneer. 

"Put your hood up," Jack says. 

"Huh?" 

"Pull up your hood and tuck in your hair. Less problems that way." 

Swallowing thickly, she obeys. It'll be almost an hour to get back to the East Side, and there are worse areas than North Point that they'll have to ride through. Being quiet and keeping to herself is the smartest option when going anywhere in Gotham, especially with skin like hers. 

The electronic PA system announces the stops along the route, and she tries to think of anything other than how it smells like urine and rotting metal. She lets the rattling of the train car lull her until she's close to sleep, but then she catches sight of what Jack's holding in his good hand. 

It's a switchblade. The blade isn't extended, but she can't help think of Tony and the cut on his throat, the bruises on his face. 

' _Maybe you should be asking your_ friend.'

"Jack?" 

"Hm?" It sounds like he was close to sleep, too. He blinks several times before his eyes come back into focus. 

She doesn't know how to ask, doesn't want to make him upset. This is probably nothing. Jack couldn't have done anything. He wouldn't.

_Don't run away from this._

She takes a shaky breath. "Have you… ever hurt someone before?" 

He looks at her blankly, but Lena's known him for long enough now to see when he's doing it on purpose. "Why?" he asks, careful to keep his tone even. 

Shrugging, she forces herself to not look away this time. He holds her stare for a long moment, eyes narrowing as his tongue runs over his teeth. 

"Yeah. I have." 

Why doesn't she feel surprised? She should be. The Jack she knows wouldn't hurt anyone. But he has, hasn't he? He seems to silently dare her to ask the next question, like he knows what it is and expected it sooner. 

She looks over her shoulder before she realizes that there aren’t any people who would care about the answer. Jack could admit to murder and no one would say a thing. Her heart is heavy, and she feels disappointed; she just doesn’t understand who has let her down. "Did… did you hurt Tony?" 

Jack’s leg had been leaning against hers, their arms touching, but he jerks away from her like she burned him with scalding water. "Oh my—fucking _Christ_ , Lena," he hisses, running his good hand through his hair. "Can't let the day end on a high note or what? Something just _needs_ to be wrong. Is that it?"

She inches back in her seat, her head down. Biting her lip when it starts to tremble, she takes a deep breath of the rank air. It curdles in her stomach, seeps out of her mouth like vaporous gas. She thinks she might be sick. 

_How did things change so quickly?_

"N-No, I’m sorry—I just… he mentioned something and I—I want to be sure." Conflict is never something she’s been good at handling. She can’t let her panic get the best of her. 

_Jack wouldn’t hurt me. I’m okay,_ she repeats, hoping it’s true. 

Scowling, Jack’s eyes are trained on the graffiti-filled ceiling, tracing their patterns. "What would you say if I did?"

"I don't… don't know." 

"Sure you do." He twists in his seat, his hand resting on her jittering thigh, on the verge of squeezing. "Would you stop being my friend? Call me names? Tell me off?" 

She shakes her head. "N-No—" 

"What would you do, then?" 

He’s close to her again and she’s relieved. Instead of garbage and urine, she breathes in the comforting smell of his laundry soap and sweat, his cigarettes. She stares at his throat, the curve of his collarbone. When she looks at his eyes, she doesn’t see anger like she expected to; she sees genuine curiosity. 

He’s treating this like another game.

"I'd ask you to stop and say you're sorry." Her voice is steady, her back straightening. The corner of his lips twitch upward, his eyes alight with something beastly. 

_Maybe he’s a wolf after all._

"What makes you think I would?" 

"Because you're not a bad person." 

This earns her another genuine grin, but it’s not like the one from earlier, when she was so excited after she first saw the warehouse. It isn’t soft and it isn’t gentle. 

"That's where you're wrong, shortie." 

But she isn’t. A bad person wouldn’t do what he has—insist on buying her food, look after her, be her friend. He’s listened to her troubles and tried his best in all the ways he can, even if he isn’t very good at knowing how to help. Jack might be rough and callous, but he isn’t bad. It hurts to think about what happened to convince him otherwise. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” she says, quietly.

She holds her breath and waits. His eyes rest on her lips and he thinks for a long moment.

“No. I didn’t.” He sighs and rests his head back against the wall of the train car. “What, don’t trust me?” he asks, raising a brow. 

She measures her words carefully against his reaction. It bothers her that she can’t tell if he’s lying. All she has is the tightening of her chest to guide her, the knot around her stomach. It’s telling her something she doesn’t know how to interpret. Or maybe a part of her doesn’t want her to know. But why would she want that? 

“I… I don’t know,” she says. Her certainty is gone, but Jack seems to have found his. 

“Tony probably pissed off the wrong people and he’s looking for someone to blame. Rejection hurts the ego, you know.”

That’s something she hadn’t thought of. Would Tony have said that as a way to get back at her? No—Tony’s kind, thoughtful. He wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. 

“But he—”

 _He wanted to be my friend, too_ , she wants to say, but Jack cuts her off with a derisive roll of his eyes. 

"I've bumped into him twice. That's it. If the guy got hit in the head, he's fucking confused. You've lived here your whole life. Gotham is a shit city filled with shit people. People get jumped every fucking day. Raped. Murdered. It ain't uncommon. He's lucky to be alive." Still, Lena hangs onto doubt. Jack isn’t wrong about Gotham, it is an incredibly dangerous place to live, but why can’t she believe him? A confusing thrill of unease and rekindled fire scorches her skin when he puts his arm around her and keeps her close. “There’s something about guys I don’t think you get, shortie. We have a lot of pride. A pretty girl turns you down and puts you in the friendzone _and_ you get the shit kicked out of you in one week? Your ego takes a hit. You gotta find someone else to blame. That’s all he’s doin’. Looking for an excuse not to seem weak.”

She thinks of her father. The excuses he makes after a long bender. What he says when she’s too hurt to move the day after he decides to vent his rage. He’s always worse after he loses a bet, when he’s thrown out of the bar for the night. Maybe Tony’s motivation wasn’t to hurt her but to save face? Her brows furrow as she rubs her temples.

"So, you didn't do it?" 

Jack’s still close, and she holds her ground. She searches his eyes for something—she doesn’t even know what. Some sign that he’s telling the truth, a slight change that indicates a lie. 

"No." Jack’s expression is smooth as stone, but, right now, he has the eyes of a tiger. "I didn't." 

She doesn’t see anything disingenuous, but would she actually be able to tell the difference? 

"Jack…" she begins, her hand at her throat as she holds her necklace like it’ll give her divine assistance. "I want you to make me a promise."

"Promise, huh?" 

She nods, entirely earnest. "Promise me that… you won't hurt anybody." 

He snorts under his breath. "Kinda broad, ain't it?"

"I don't…" She sighs and looks at him with big eyes. The mocking curl to his lip is gone, and she swears his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. Teeth worrying over her lip, she takes his hand in hers before she can change her mind. He keeps it loose, lets her hold it between her own. "Promise you won't fight, that you won't… cause harm with intent." 

"Gettin' formal on me now," he laughs, but she doesn’t join in. It’s her turn to be unwavering. She needs this one thing from him. The only thing she’ll ever ask for. His smile disappears when she wraps her pinky around his, holds it tight. "We're not kids, Lena." 

She smiles shyly, the tips of her fingers tracing the dips and bumps of his knuckles, all the small scars. She’d swear, too, that he just shivered. "It's a symbolic gesture. The pinkiest of pinky swears."

Grumbling like a disgruntled bear, he returns the pressure. "What'll you do if I break it?" 

"Well, I'll… I'll be sad. Disappointed, I guess." _Hurt._ She doesn't say that one out loud. "But you won't, right?" she asks, her eyes wide, pleading. For once, it’s Jack who looks away first, the tinge of pink in his cheeks darkening. 

"Alright. Promise." Lena’s smile returns, and she has to consciously hold herself back from hugging him here on the train. Her happiness seems to infect him; Jack’s smiling, too. "If you wanted this to be more official, we'd be doing a blood pact." 

"Ew, no! Nobody is cutting anything." 

"It's not a big cut, just a tiny prick." 

"Nuh-uh, that's how you get sick." 

"Only if one of us is disease-ridden.” He looks at her up and down with scandalized concern. “You got somethin' you haven't told me about?" 

"No!" she protests, failing to suppress a laugh. "Now you're being mean." 

"You have a very loose definition of 'mean'." 

"Teasing, then." 

He laughs at her and she playfully pinches his side just like she does with Rose. His eyes widening, Jack is the closest to bashful that she’s ever seen. It’s endearing and puts her at ease. 

Clearing his throat, he adjusts his arm to loop around her completely, to cradle the back of her neck. His fingers lightly tap against her shoulder to some unfamiliar beat, slow and steady. "It's a decent ride back. Why don’t you… I don’t know. Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll wake you up when we need to transfer.” 

Normally, she’d refuse; she doesn't need to have a nap on the train like a kid. But she can barely keep her eyes open, and she comforts herself with the notion that she’d be resting on her friend and that’s all it will be. His shoulder is hard but his jacket pads it out, and she finds a comfortable spot quickly. A part of her keeps expecting him to tell her to get off, that he’s kidding. But he doesn’t, and she lets the speeding train rock her to sleep. 

*

Lena’s groggy when Jack shakes her awake, her eyes bleary, but he navigates them back home safely as Lena cuts in and out of waking. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years, and she’s glad Mr. Nakamura gave her the assignment extension; she’ll definitely need it.

The switchblade stays gripped in Jack’s hand the whole way home. The streets are mostly empty, everyone’s crowded into restaurants and bars for the holiday. She wonders if they look different from any other couple right now. She doesn't know if she likes the butterflies it gives her, the warm heat it creates in her belly, but she’s too tired to feel much of anything beyond blunted embarrassment. It’s started snowing again by the time they get to her apartment building, the sidewalks slick and bright. Distorted music blares from a bar down the street, the deep bass thudding through the ground like a tremor. If the game's still on and the bar he's at isn't crowded, she probably won't see her dad tonight. 

They didn't talk much to one another on their way to her place from the train, and she still feels like there's something she needs to say. Something she's afraid to admit. 

"Um, Jack?" she calls when he hands her bag back and walks down the front stairs of her building. 

Stopping to lean against the metal bannister, he sighs. "Got another promise you want me to make?" he asks, his smile half-hearted. It’s only now that she sees he’s exhausted, too. 

Drunk on the call of sleep and her movements slow and enervated, she meets him at the bottom of the stairs. Pulse throbbing like a second heartbeat, she gently pushes her mind aside. The calling in her blood is louder, its pull hypnotic. Her breath shaky, she does what she’s wanted since they first got to the warehouse: she slowly wraps her arms around Jack and rests her head on his sternum. He tenses at the contact. If it wasn’t for the intense heat radiating from him, the staccato beat of his heart, she’d almost think he had turned to ice. 

"Thank you. For everything." 

Despite his confusion, he doesn’t push Lena away. Tentatively, he returns her embrace, his touch light-handed. It's almost like he's afraid he'll break her, that she needs to be handled with care. She feels emboldened, grasping onto the idea that he likes this, too. On tiptoe, she grips the lapels of his jacket with her mitted hands for balance. He's breathing harder now; his heart beats faster. Her palms are sweaty, making the knitted wool slick. Slowly, gently, her eyes fluttering closed, she kisses him on the cheek, an inch away from the corner of his mouth. His muscles harden, he holds his breath like he's submerged underwater. There’s a fine stubble along his jaw that tickles Lena's lips, a faint taste of salt from his sweat that finds its way on her tongue. She lingers for a moment longer than she would with Rose, than she had with Tony. 

Sense finds her when she pulls away, and she knows if she were white-skinned her cheeks would be flamed crimson. She's lightheaded, unsteady on her feet and self-conscious as she touches her lips like she can't believe she did that—that he let her. Like some kind of schoolgirl from a movie, she intends to run inside and mentally berate herself about ruining their friendship, pushing this too far, but Jack holds her in place. His hands rest on the same spots they had on Monday, his long fingers almost encircling the entirety of her bicep. It doesn’t hurt, but she almost wants it to. It would tell her if this was real or if she's still asleep. Spellbound, she can’t look away and neither can he. 

“You should be more careful, Lena,” he murmurs. He's breathing again, chest rising and falling harshly. His eyes are excoriating, hungry. Minacious. She doesn't blink when he cups her neck with his hand, his thumb brushing the underside of her jaw. "If you invite a wolf into your house, there’s no getting rid of it.” 

Jack's going to kiss her. Lena wants him to. 

He bends down as he had in the warehouse when their lips just barely touched, his eyes heavy and dark. She closes hers, angles her head as she holds her breath and wonders what he tastes like.

But then he doesn’t. 

Inhaling sharply and pulling back like he'd been slapped, he firmly pushes her away, leaving her cold and too light in his absence. And then he’s waving goodbye as he disappears down the street, gone without a word before she can say anything about it. She stares after him until he's too far down the block to pick out his shape from the other milling couples and the dark lamposts. Taking off her glove, she touches her lips, feels the prickling, enlivened skin, unbelieving.

They were really about to kiss. 

_Would that have been good or bad?_

Unable to extricate one feeling from the next, she peeks over her shoulder like she expects him to reappear as she heads inside. Her lips tingle with what almost was, and as it fades, she’s left with guilt. She’s felt like this before with Rose, she’s wanted the same thing—to kiss and hold hands and for them to lean on one another. When did she move on from Rose to Jack? But no, that's not entirely right. She still loves Rose, feels warm and happy and safe when she’s around, thinks about what it would be like to hold her hand as something other than friends.

But Lena knows Rose will never feel that way about her. Rose has Djamal now; they're happy. Lena wouldn't ruin that for anything. Is it so bad to feel like this about Jack? She can already hear what Rose would say if she knew about what almost happened, how Lena's been feeling. It makes her feel like she's on the verge of doing something wrong. But Jack seems to like her, too, doesn't he? But then, if he felt the same, why did he all but tell her not to be around him? What he said doesn't make sense; it contradicts his behaviour. Maybe it's another part of a game for him. A game she hasn't learned the rules for yet. 

_People are way too confusing…_

What happened to when things were simple, when she’d have a crush that would last a month and she’d move on and forget about it? People should just say what they mean. _She_ should just say what she means. That would make all of this easier, wouldn't it, if she just learned to say what she felt instead of pretending it all didn't exist. 

_I’m confusing myself._

There’s too much to sift through, and it can wait until she’s rested. She wants to curl under her duvet after slipping into her thick sweatpants and not emerge until noon tomorrow. It doesn’t even matter that it’s cold—she has enough heat trapped in her chest to burn up with a fever and hold her through the night. Sleeping in isn’t something she usually does, but her body is calling for compensation all at once, and she doesn’t have the energy to deny it. Having a hot shower to wash away the dirt from the warehouse and train sounds appealing, too. 

Even through her drowsy haze, Lena can see something’s off when she gets to her floor. The apartment door isn’t shut all the way; the lights are on; she hears voices. Did one of her dad's friends drop him off and forget to shut the door on the way out? 

She slowly opens the door. Her aunt’s neat and tidy leather boots are sitting beside her father’s muddy work ones; their coats are hanging on the rack. She sighs in relief as she shuts the door and locks it behind her. 

" _Bampás_? _Theía_?" 

They don’t answer. 

_Strange._

Unlacing her boots and peeling off her soaking socks, she hangs her coat next to her aunt’s and smooths down her hair and straightens her sweater. The living room light’s on—her aunt could be busy with her dad if he’s really out of it. The bartender must’ve called her again. She's not even sure what time it is. 

But it’s not just her aunt and dad in the living room. 

Two men are in her apartment. One wears a fancy black topcoat over an expensive grey suit, a cigar in his mouth and his dark hairline receding. His nose is long and his face pinched to a point, eyes an unsettling blue and skin sallow and oily. But it’s the bald man beside him that terrifies Lena. Only a few inches taller than she is and his black leather jacket wet with melted snow, his eyes are two black voids carved into his face. He can’t be much older than she is, maybe twenty-five, but it’s like locking eyes with a snake coiled to strike. She forgets how to breathe. 

" _Fýge tóra—pigaine. Tóra_!" her aunt hisses, pointing to the door. The bald man shoves her back down on the couch next to her dad when she tries to stand. Lena’s paralyzed in the doorway, her eyes wide. 

“Huh. You didn’t say you had a kid, Phil,” the taller man says, his eyes dragging up and down Lena’s body. She feels ill. “You’ve been holding out on us. And here I thought we were friends.” 

Aunt Penny curses at the man in Greek, stretching out her hand with her palm open and fingers splayed—a _moutza_. The bald man backhands her aunt hard enough to crack her head to the side, and Lena covers her mouth with her hand to keep herself from screaming. 

"Speak English, woman. This is America. Fuckin’ act like it," the tall man says, taking a heavy drag from his cigar. He turns his attention back to Lena and smiles like he isn’t terrorizing her family, like he’s welcoming her into his own home rather than taking over hers. "C'mere, sweetheart. No need to be nervous. Just havin' a friendly chat."

Listening and keeping her head down is the only thing to do in situations like these. In movies, the heroines always scream and fight and try to run away when they find themselves in trouble. But that’s not how it works. Running away on the first try without distance is next to impossible; it's better to bide your time, wait _—_ endure a little pain now and spare yourself worse. Doing anything foolish turns what might’ve been survivable into something deadly. 

She learned that lesson a long time ago. 

Her legs shake, but she nods. Aunt Penny and her dad are sitting together, her aunt’s cradling her cheek with her hand, eyes filled with angry tears. Her dad’s head is bleeding from a nasty cut along his hairline and down his forehead. His jersey is soaked with blood, the gold disappearing in a seeping wave of red. The bald man steps in front of Lena when she tries to sit with them, and she bites back a whimper when he grabs her by the shoulder and makes her sit on her dad’s chair four feet away. The shaking spreads like a virus, but she keeps her hands visible in her lap, head bowed. Terror almost gets the better of her when the man doesn't take his hand away. It lingers on her back, strokes her hair between his fingers. 

"We've got the whole family together now. Beautiful." The tall man in the suit clasps his hands together, jovial. No one says anything, and Lena knows better than to ask what’s going on. He bends down to stare at her face, his grin widening as the other man squeezes her shoulder like he's trying to make the bones on either side meet in the middle. "Did you have a good Valentine's, sweetheart?"

"I gave you everything, Felice," her dad interrupts, his face red with impotent rage.

"Not everything, friend," the tall man, Felice, tuts. "Maybe you shoulda thought about not borrowing what you can't repay. Bad business. Bad for your health, too." 

Felice. She recognizes the name even if she doesn’t know his face; everyone knows him in their neighbourhood: Felice Viti, the brother-in-law of Carmine Falcone. What did her dad do?

"I need more time." 

Lena curls her fingers into her palm, digging in her nails until the pain outweighs her fear. Crying doesn’t help. She knows men like this don’t care. 

"You sure you have no money, Phil? Nothing to spare?" Felice asks. Her dad says nothing. He doesn’t remind her of a bear anymore. The smell of old blood and booze is replaced with tobacco and cedar, and her dad’s strength is gone. He doesn’t look any bigger than her aunt beside him. "We wouldn't want this to be unpleasant. Your family's here, after all." 

Aunt Penny glares but says nothing. Her spoken English isn’t good, but she can understand it just fine. Her brother’s lived in Gotham for almost twenty years and she’s only been here for two. Penny is closer to Lena’s age, and she doesn’t entirely get what Gotham can be like, how America doesn’t provide the justice it promises. 

Felice waits for a response, the tension mounting until Lena thinks she might be sick everywhere. The cloying smoke is thick in her throat, and she can feel the panic expanding in her chest, pressing against her lungs. She wrings her hands to keep them from trembling. 

"I-I have fifty dollars, sir," Lena says quietly, daring to look at Felice against her better judgement. "I can get it." 

He smiles like he might laugh at her, but he doesn’t. Instead, he rubs the top of her head like she’s a puppy. "No, no. Save your money, sweetpea," he says, not unkindly. She cringes at the pet name, eyes fixed once again on her hands in her lap. "Phil owes much more than that. Pathetic. Can't even pay your own debt, you gotta get a couple of girls to do it for you? Must we resort to other means, Phil? Things with more… _value_." 

She keeps her lips pressed tightly together. They all know the answer. They have no money, they have nothing to sell. And men like them always get their due. That’s just how their world works. 

“No one wants to play ball, huh?” 

She wipes the tears away as they fall, her skin erupting in full-blown tremors when the bald man behind her moves her hair from the back of her neck. What'll he do if he sees her scars? Will he be like Riley was? She can't stomach the thought.

The three of them jump when Felice drags a chair from the kitchen into the living room, the legs scraping against the old, faux-tile and catching on their dated carpet. He sets it up in front of Lena, taking care to straighten it and wipe off the seat. Unclasping the button of his suit jacket as he sits, he spreads his legs wide as he inhales deeply. He relaxes into the chair like he's anticipating a long visit with a friend, and he spends a long moment just staring, taking his time to enjoy his cigar. Lena tries her best not to cough. 

"How old are you, sweetheart?" he asks eventually, blowing the smoke into her face, stinging her eyes. The bald man finally leaves to hold her dad down by the shoulder as he growls in anger. "Ah, ah—it's rude to interrupt,” the tall man says to her dad, wagging a finger at him before returning his attention to her. “Answer the question." 

The tip of his cigar flares, his thin lips puckered around it. She struggles to find her voice, but cowering will do nothing, either. She forces herself to maintain eye contact. 

"I'm sixteen, sir." 

She doesn’t know what there is to stare at when she’s completely swallowed by an oversized sweater, flat-chested, and wearing jeans that are too big, but somehow Felice manages to make her feel naked despite the three layers of clothing. 

"A good age. Good for a lotta things." He turns to her dad and smiles lasciviously around his cigar. Lena knows this is part of the show, humiliating them. She bites her tongue until it bleeds to keep herself from hyperventilating. 

"I'll get your money," her dad says, defeated. She’s never seen him acquiesce to anyone; he’s far too stubborn. He looks gutted, like even his anger has been taken from him. Undoing the clasp of his wristwatch, his fingers shaking, he hands it to the bald man and silences her aunt when she protests. "It's gold. Consider it a down payment." 

Felice claps his hands once, eyes alight with mirth. "I am _glad_ we have an understanding, Phil. I knew we could work something out.” He rises and holds out his hand expectantly. The bald man doesn’t release her dad, and he’s forced to shake Felice’s hand while sitting. Felice clasps her dad's hand in his own and stoops down. “You Greeks are very cheap, dishonest. Dirty. Maybe think about working on that." 

She’s only seen her father ashamed after a long drinking binge, when he’s destroyed most of their things and soiled himself and hit her in blind fury. He reeks of shame now, and so does she. 

"You have a week. Stop by tomorrow when you’ve sobered up and we can make some arrangements.” Felice wipes his hands on his silk monteith and drops his spent cigar to the floor, digging it into the carpet with the heel of his dress shoe. “May you stay in good health. Come along, Victor." 

The bald man follows like a trained dog, and they shut the door quietly behind them, and the three of them stay sitting like the men are still here to keep them cowed. The apartment feels foreign, violated. Unsafe. The pictures on the walls and their blankets feel like cheap copies, like they've been stuck inside a cheap replica and each item has some small defect they can feel but can't identify.

Her aunt is the first to cry. She yells at her dad in Greek through her sobs, calling him a lousy coward, weak. He stares at the floor where the cigar smoulders, his expression empty and back slouched. Lena needs to know what happened, what's going to happen to them. How much does he owe? What will happen if he can't pay it back? 

" _Bampás_ —"

" _Pígaine sto domátio sou_ ," he says, cutting Lena off. 

Lena looks between them, baffled at the reversal: her aunt shouting in anger and her dad taking it. But she listens. At least they wait until she’s out of the room to start screaming in earnest, and Lena nearly trips on her way to the bathroom to throw up. Sweet acid burns her esophagus and she chokes, and her stomach doesn't stop until it's empty, until she gags on nothing. Her teeth feel wrong, coated in some strange enamel, her tongue singed. The apartment is too small, the walls too thin to block out what they’re saying. They're arguing about money, about her dad's drinking, how he can never clean up his own mess, how he's failed as a man. There is no quiet reprieve in the imagined conversations of her neighbours. Lena can’t hide from this in her room. She wants to go back to dreaming, to the cold little world that belonged just to her and Jack. Their own snow globe where bad things didn’t happen, they didn’t matter. 

But none of this is a dream; none of this is a nightmare. Even when she makes it to her room and pulls her duvet over her head, there’s no escape for her here, either. All she finds is a kaleidoscope of hurt, disappointed faces and blood and bruises. 

Jack’s wrong. Lena doesn’t sleep. She stares at the fraying fabric of her blanket, the fine stitches of her pillowcase, the cracks in the plaster wall until she can’t tell the difference between waking and dreaming. 

And Lena is afraid. 

Not of her dad and not of the men and not of Jack. Lena’s afraid she’ll never find her escape again, that this is all that’s left for her, that she’ll lose everything important. Little by little. One by one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys - I meant to have this out earlier but my depression has really been kicking me when I'm down. School is starting for me next week and I'm in no way emotionally prepared (RIP, haha), so I likely won't have chapter 7 out until October. But if you want to get more _Incantare_ before then, follow me on Tumblr at [ladyoftheseastuff](https://ladyoftheseastuff.tumblr.com/)! I post updates, moodboards, previews, and I've been getting a good amount of asks about the story and characters if you want some more insight into them at all. Feel free to reach out to me whenever you'd like - I love hearing from you, even if I can be a bit slow sometimes to answer. 💖
> 
> This chapter is a behemoth and I was struggling with it a bit, but all of your incredibly kind and generous reviews really helped me get through my slump, and I sincerely wish you like the chapter. Let me know what you think! 🥰 (And to everyone I haven't replied to yet, I'm so sorry!!!! I promise that your reviews have certainly made me cry more than once in the last while and I plan on replying to each and every one of you with lots of love and gushing and an overabundance of emojis. You're the best there is!) 
> 
> Here are the Greek translations (and to the lovely person who asked about it that I haven't replied to yet - I'm not Greek, but I use a combo of Google Translate and a few other online dictionaries and the sparse bit of knowledge I picked up during my undergrad, and I'm so relieved that I'm getting them right!! I try my best not to make any errors, but please feel free to point out any errors if you ever catch any 💖):
> 
> Anóita agória kai ta anóita paichnídia tous - foolish boys and their foolish games. 
> 
> Na eísai gennaia - Be brave
> 
> Eímai gennaia - I am brave. 
> 
> Fýge tóra—pigaíno. Tóra! - Leave now—go. Now! 
> 
> Pígaine sto domátio sou - Go to your room. 


	7. Spellbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's and enjoy the chapter! 💖

_A great force is asleep in you, curled up inside of you like a snake. You pretend to be asleep—absolutely asleep—lazy and dreamy and nonchalant. But I feel the dynamite in you._

_The Diaries of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1939_

* * *

Friendship is a funny thing. 

Yes, there's the laughs, blowing off steam, having a consistent group of idiots to fuck with, but the _best_ thing about friends is how most of 'em assume you're in it for the same reasons they are, that there's a mutual goal, a desire for connection. It's funny, too, how the most inconsequential things can spark them. Something as simple as a borrowed pen or a shared moment outside smoking a cigarette. 

Jack's never made a real attempt at making pals for himself. Lena was more of an accident. An experiment. A hunch that's grown into something more. He's content to keep it at that. At least, that's what he tells himself. Most days, he's convincing too.

That's why on one balmy March afternoon, Jack finds himself close to bashing Spencer Nowak's head in with a rock. It'll be messy. Brain matter and gore tend to have that effect, don't they? Jack's wearing white too. The blood will surely ruin his shirt, but _fuck_ it'd be satisfying. At least he wouldn't have to listen to Spencer's grating voice again, stare at the faux-gangster persona that makes Jack wanna set the boy's clothes on fire regardless if he's still wearing them or not. 

"Yo," Spencer says, swaggering Jack's way. His pants are one wrong move from falling and Jack is tempted to aid the process. He leans on the wall next to Jack, either ignoring or forgetting Jack's clear distaste from their first meeting as he offers him a joint. If he hadn't made that promise to Lena, he'd break Spencer's wrist. The fucker would _bleed_ stupid. All bright, artificial red like melted Twizzlers and burnt, soupy plastic. His skin would split smoothly, like rubbery silicon under a sharp knife. 

"Wanna toke?" he asks after he's lit up a joint filled with cheap skunk-weed and deeply inhaled. It makes the air noxious and rank, thick in Jack's throat. 

He takes a long drag of his cigarette instead and blows the smoke in Spencer's face as he cracks his knuckles, one at a time. He wonders, as he often does, if his little promise is worth it. 

"Just askin', bro." He holds his hands up and laughs as he flicks his silver zippo closed. 

The asshole either has no sense of self-preservation, which is a lot less endearing when it _isn't_ Lena, or he wants something. Jack's never been one for accepting ambiguity, and after a few minutes pass, his curiosity gets the better of him. 

"What've you heard about me anyway?" Jack asks, staring at the smouldering end of his cigarette, the little flecks of orange eating at the paper and tobacco with a voracious hunger, the ash flicking in the wind. He's tempted to press it into Spencer's cheek. That'd be fun, listening to him scream. 

"Huh?" His eyes are already glassy, the red billowing to the surface of his sclera like a drop of blood in thick cream. 

"You mentioned that before. Explain."

" _Oh._ That, right." He laughs for a moment before straightening. "It true you've been to juvie?" Spencer fails to suppress his grin. 

_Unoriginal fucks._

"No."

"Set a cop car on fire?" 

" _No._ " 

Spencer smiles widely. He's getting into it now. 

_Fucking thundercunt._

"D’ya eat your cat because—" 

"Fuck, you're a waste of air." 

This the shit they actually say about him? _Really?_ He thought there'd be more talk of murder, but _fuck._ Taking another drag, he pushes away from the wall and leaves. He's not going to class, but he has detention in forty-five minutes. With one week of his sentence left, he doesn't want to aggravate the school enough to extend it. 

"Wait, wait, bro." Spencer rushes to catch up, going so far as to block Jack's way. He clips Spencer with a shoulder, but that doesn't seem to deter the dumbass much. "Only kidding. Just for laughs, yeah? I don't actually believe that shit." 

Jack knows he's lying. Spencer would believe just about anything. He really is a dumb cunt. 

"No need to be such a square, man. Gotta make more friends here at some point." 

The fucking moron thinks they live in California or something. He certainly looks the part with his tan skin and grown-out hair, puka shells around his neck and Woodstock t-shirt. He's been watching too much MTV, harbouring dreams of warmer climates and fast cars. Spencer knows most of the school, is friends with creeps like Riley Cooper and girls like Camille McPherson. He has no reason to befriend the school outcast. 

_It means he wants something,_ Jack thinks. He grimaces.

"I'm fine in the friend department." Jack doesn't slow. For a pothead, Spencer has way too much fucking energy. 

"I've only seen you hang out with Lena Grey." There's a tone in Spencer's voice he doesn't like. A particular lilt Jack's heard too many times when guys start talking about girls. All that's missing is the exaggerated brow pump like they're in a 70s porno. "So, you two a thing?" 

Jack freezes, his cigarette dangling between two fingers as the line of ash falls. He's not stupid, he saw how Spencer looked at Lena on Valentine's, how he crowded her at Riley's party. He probably looks at her and sees a pretty, naïve virgin he can fuck for brownie points and laughs. She shouldn't be around people like _him._ Would she be flattered if he asked her out? Would she say yes?

His rage ignites. His hand itches for his knife, jaw tense as his whole body coils tight.

"'Thing'?" he forces out from behind clenched teeth.

"Y'know, an item. 'Dating'. Friends with benefits."

Hackles rising, Jack's voice drops a pitch, "Change the subject."

Spencer laughs, grinning like he fucking knows something, like they're sharing the same dirty joke. "No need to be embarrassed, Napier. We talked a bit at Halloween before Cooper scared her off. Fucking cockblock, that guy. Were you there? Can't remember." 

All men think with their cocks. How many times did Spencer think about her when he was jerking off? Lena wouldn't know any better, either. She's too easily persuaded. Thinking about it chokes Jack with fury. 

If Spencer is aware of the danger he's in, he doesn't show it. He shrugs. "She's a sweet girl. Real cute, too. I can see why you're into her." 

Jack wouldn't mind being covered in blood if it's Spencer's. He'd enjoy himself, too. He can see it now, the small 'o' Spencer's mouth would make as he gasped and a bright chrysanthemum of red decorated his shirt, the handle of Jack's switchblade an unconventional stem. It's almost beautiful when he thinks about it that way, almost like he's painting. Maybe all that toxic goop bottled up inside of Spencer could be useful for something. 

But he made a promise. 

He fucking _hates_ Lena for it—batting her fucking eyelashes, her voice all quiet and soft when she's asking for something he can't give, and he hates her for wanting to try. Jack is aware of the contradiction, he just hasn't figured out how to solve it. 

"You'd shut up if you knew what was good for you," he growls. 

Spencer takes another toke, laughing. "That why you beat the shit out of Mendez?" 

He crushes the remnants of his cigarette between his fingers, relishing the pain as the remnant flame singes his skin. 

"Things get around," Spencer says with an easy smile as he eyes up Jack. "I don't know what you were expecting—" 

Nearly ripping him off his feet, Jack slams Spencer against the wall by his shirt collar. Switchblade extended and pressed to his throat, it takes a Godly amount of will to keep himself from ramming it in. Fuck detention. Fuck his childish promise. He'll make this fucking shithead wish he didn't get out of bed this morning. No, he'll make him wish he never learned how to _speak_.

"Hey, hey!I-It's cool, man—we're cool! Who cares about a wetback getting what's comin' anyway? Just—chill, man." 

Spencer holds up his hands as they shake with panic. He's smiling, but his sweat smells sharp, like battery acid. Spencer's afraid, and it eggs Jack on more than anything. He can almost feel what it would be like to sink the blade into Spencer's throat. How the skin would resist before giving way, blood leaking out slowly before pouring in torrents. It would take some force to drive the knife in all the way. Spencer would scream, fight. That'd make it fun. Looking at him when the moron knows he couldn't do anything to make it stop, that he could only bleed and bleed. 

Jack _knows_ it would feel so fucking _good._

He pushes the tip of the knife in slowly before he manages to stop himself. Thoughts of prison and Lena's eternal disappointment are the only reason he lowers his knife. The full realization of how stupid he's been hits him in the chest. Who knows who was watching; Jack wasn't subtle. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He lost control. He can't afford to do that. Not like he did with Tony. 

"Tell me to 'chill' again and you'll get worse," he bites, shoving Spencer and sneering in disgust—disgusted with Spencer as much as himself. Retracting the blade, he shoves the knife back in his pocket.

He's shaking slightly, his brown waves stuck to his temples. "Damn, man. You're hardcore." Sighing in relief, his forehead damp with sweat, Spencer tries to laugh. 

"And you're fucking stupid." 

Surely, Jack thinks, Spencer will leave him alone now. Breathing hard, he’s almost at the corner of the school lot, mud caked around his soles and the bottom hem of his jeans. Brakes screech in the distance. The sun's eye burns into him, all-knowing. Air thick with unspilled rain, his hands shake. All his anger, all his hate has nowhere to go. It's built up inside him like poison. Corrosive. Acidic. The pressure in his veins is immense. Overwhelming. It burns his skin from the inside out, one spark away from setting him alight. 

He can't go to detention. He can't be around people—especially not Lena. Fuck his plan to meet her when her class ends. He needs to get this out. Relieve the pressure. Watch red seep down the edge of a silver blade. Bloodlet. What's one more scar in a sea of others? Pain helps. It always helps. 

"Hey, it's cool. You don't need to go," Spencer calls from behind him. 

Jack isn't listening. He walks away from school, looking for an alley to melt into along the empty street. 

Spencer really is slow in the head. He follows Jack, jogging to catch up. 

"There's one other rumour I heard," he pants, his shoes almost clipping the back of Jack's heels. He doesn’t care; he’ll cave Spencer’s head in right there on the sidewalk. At least the dumbass has the brains to be afraid. "It true you run errands for Viti? Do favours and shit?" 

Jack stops, ignoring how Spencer runs into his back. He's been _very_ careful to tell no one what kind of work he does. Lena's never asked, but apparently there are other people who want to pay too much attention. Perhaps he should have expected this sooner; there are only so many crime circles operating in the neighbourhood. It isn't hard to figure out who's who if you listen. Still, he doesn't need Spencer running his mouth. And that's what he seems especially good at; talking when he isn't supposed to. 

"What makes you think you know shit?" 

At least Spencer looks apprehensive. His eyes dart to Jack's pocket, where his knife is. Where Jack's hand hovers. He swallows thickly. 

"Told ya. I do some… dealing, on the side. Low-level stuff. But that's not where the money's at, you know what I mean?" 

_Ah. That's what this is about,_ Jack thinks. Spencer's insistence makes more sense, but it doesn't dampen Jack's disdain. 

"That's what it is for you, huh? Money."

Spencer tries to smile, fingers trembling as he sticks a new joint between his teeth. "Isn't it like that for everyone?"

Bitterness builds in his throat. Black bile made of hate. 

"Only if you're a sheep." 

He hates that Spencer is right. He hates that he's just as much a slave to money as anyone else. Always the sheep, never the wolf. 

"Cold, man. Real cold." The tension in his brow eases; he gains some of his swagger back, walking easily beside Jack. "I wanna move out west, but you can't do that without some lubrication to get you there, you know?" 

"Lubrication?" Jack snickers. 

Spencer's face flushes, the tips of his ears red. "I'm no fag, okay," he says in a rush. "You know what I mean. Everything's about money _._ Always is." 

Against his will, Jack finds his mood turning. Something's clicking in his brain, he just can't name it yet. Maybe Spencer could have some use after all.

"So, you want in?" His hands itch; he wants another cigarette, but he's almost out. Jack pulls his knife instead, popping out the blade and flipping it in his hand before retracting it and starting all over again. 

"Yeah, man. That's it—I want in." The nervousness is back in Spencer's voice. _Good._

"Why the fuck should I do that?" 

Another _click_. The blade flips higher. Jack catches it between two fingers before flicking it back up in the air. Not the smartest thing to do in the middle of a sidewalk, but it's empty and this is Gotham. Someone's likely getting shanked twenty feet away. There isn't anyone to care. 

"Don't you get bonus points for bringing in recruits?" 

He scoffs. "Not if they're a liability. And I'm outside the circuit. I don't run in those circles." 

"Just get me a meeting, that's it." 

Calm finds Jack; his thoughts quiet. The screaming in his head is replaced with a plan. The urge to bury his knife in his arm ebbs. His chest lightens. 

The other funny thing about friendship? How easy people make it. How simple it becomes to see who wants it more. How they lay their desires bare without prompting. Jack will be no friend of his, but that doesn't matter if Spencer doesn't catch on. One of Jack's lingering dilemmas now has a possible solution. It'll require more patience than he anticipated, but getting away with murder always does. 

"How old are you?" 

"Seventeen in June." 

He pretends to think for a moment.

"Do what I say between now and then, and if I like what I see then, sure. I'll get you your meeting." 

"Fuckin' sick." 

"If you fuck up, I'll do worse than give you a few bruises." 

"Hey, I get it, man. I do." What a backward fucking world this is for Spencer to look at him with gratitude. Ten minutes ago Jack was ready to let him bleed out at his feet, and now he's collared himself and offered Jack the leash. "I take it that means to leave your girlfriend alone?"

No sense in correcting him; Spencer has the spirit of the question right. Lena is out of bounds. Lena is his, and his alone.

He lets Spencer's question hang in the air for a moment too long, takes a twisted pleasure in watching him squirm, his smile disappearing into doubt. 

He grins, his face all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. His eyes are dark, oppressive, as he flips his knife one last time. "If you want to keep your teeth." 

* * *

Gotham City isn't that bad at night. It comes alive, millions of glimmering lights shining through the black night. Large puddles refracting the city lights create an oily mirrored world. He finds it ironic—both show Gotham in a gutter. Night is when Jack loves Gotham best. Well, as much as he can love anything. The false face fades to show the decay, the rot. Like cockroaches, people scurry out from their holes, pouring into the street. This is no place for the rich, not from their safe haven in Midtown. The people here don't lie, not in the same way most do. They aren't hiding anything. Their clothes are cheap, their shoes worn. They're loud. They shout and drink and steal and hate and watch the streets like wary animals who've survived the lions and know they're coming back. Predators always do. It's survival of the fittest. Those who pretend it isn't get crushed and left behind. 

"Looking for some company, hun?" a blonde woman in a red sequin dress asks from a doorway leading to one of Felice Viti's many clubs. 

He ignores her, pulling his hood down further and gripping his knife tightly. 

Jack's come around to Lena's point of view, decay really is another form of life. Gotham is on the edge of turning into something new, a dying forest in need of a cleansing fire. 

Every night, he winds his way through the streets. He finds it relaxing. Despite being one of the biggest cities in America, Jack feels truly invisible, free to wander and watch. No one cares. No one will. He could die in a gutter, drowned in his own blood and bloated from the spring rains and it wouldn't even be an anecdote in the paper. There's something comforting about that. 

Why then does Jack find himself outside Lena's window? 

He finds himself here often; his feet subconsciously carry him to her dilapidated apartment. He watches, breathes in the rank air, lets the damp soak his hoodie, seep through his skin to chill his bones., his canvas shoes soaked, his socks clinging to his feet, wet and clammy and cloying. He doesn't always climb her fire escape, but tonight he does. The metal is slick. Orange rust coats his hands. 

All he wanted was to watch, but when Jack looks through the mist-covered window of Lena's bedroom, he's surprised to see the small space filled with cardboard boxes. Gone are her books, her posters and her photo collages. Only her bed and a few pieces of furniture remain. The hall leading from her room is dark. There is no sound, even her neighbours are quiet. She's so still, he almost didn't see her standing at the far wall. She's holding something in her hands, staring hard. He can't see her face. He wants to know what she's thinking, if he can figure out what's going on in her head. 

It would be really fucking stupid to think he missed her. He didn't. He _doesn't._ He's just… bored. Painfully bored.

Even all these months later, he does a piss-poor job of convincing himself of that. 

He can’t hide his grin when Lena jumps after he taps the glass with his knuckles. Her long hair is thrown up in a messy knot on the top of her head, her figure hidden by one of her usual too-big sweaters. It doesn’t stop his stomach from doing a small flip or the electric current shooting downward. It’s happened too many times for him to claim he doesn’t know what it means. 

"Jack!" She smiles widely when she wedges the window open. No matter what, she’s always excited to see him—no questions asked, no suspicion. He can’t think of a time when that’s been true at any other point in his life. 

"Hey, shortie." He sits on the sill, swinging his feet over the edge and stooping to peer down the hall. "It safe to come in?"

She nods. "My dad's gone. He won't be back until tomorrow." 

He’s looking at her now, searching her face. "You sure about that?" he asks, lowering his voice. 

Nodding again, she bites her lip. She can’t look him in the eyes. Her small hands worry over one another. "He… He has a new job. His schedule isn't as, um… unpredictable, I guess." 

Eyes narrowing, he waits for her to elaborate. She doesn’t. Turning away, she goes back to a stack of books on her desk, carefully placing them in an open box. His teeth grate together. He doesn’t bother with being quiet, shutting the window hard enough to rattle the frame. He doesn’t care that she flinches. Anticipation gives way to annoyance.

"New job?" 

She clears her throat, shoulders slowly creeping up like she’s trying to make herself smaller. "Yeah." 

Reading Lena used to be like reading a book meant for middle schoolers, but she's become more distant since Valentine's. Stuck in her own head, hiding. It makes him want to drag it out of her by the hair. 

"What's with the boxes?" 

She's labelled each box in loving cursive. One marked 'photography' sits on top of the heap in the sturdiest box. Before, she managed to make the room feel bigger than it was. Homier. Now it feels… dead. The soul of it is gone. Lena's the only spot of life left, undimmed and bright. He doesn't remember any place he's lived ever feeling like it does when he's around her. Like he could sleep through the night. Like he's finally found a home. 

He shakes his head. There's no point thinking like that. None at all. He focuses on his anger, his annoyance. He understands those things. 

"My dad and I are moving in with my aunt," she says, eyes on the floor. 

All of the rage he felt before rekindles. It takes effort—too much of it—to keep it contained, to keep from spilling out the molten fury. 

He's behind her, his nose filled with the smell of her shampoo. She's still too small, her frame dwarfed by her clothes. He could run his fingers in her hair if he wanted, pull it loose. He could wring her pretty neck if he wanted, too. Sometimes it scares him—how close he wants to be to her, what he wants to do. How he wants to touch her like he did at Halloween. The thought stokes the flames in his belly, but he won't lose control. He won't let it happen. He _can't_ let it happen. 

"When were you planning on telling me?" he murmurs. Despite all of his intentions, his fingers trace the knobby bones of her spine, just grazing her skin. She shivers. 

"I was, I promise I was going to." She covers the nape of her neck with her palm, looking at him from over her shoulder with wide eyes. He can feel the heat coming from her back, almost see the blood rushing to her cheeks beyond the brown of her skin. There are only a few inches between them, but instead of backing away like she would before, she stays still. He almost imagines her leaning closer. "Things are… complicated right now. I'm not very good with complicated." 

"Complicated how?" She looks away, and he resists the urge to grab her by the chin. He's growing tired of this game. "What aren't you telling me?" 

"He—I…" 

Jack isn't imagining it now; Lena _is_ closer. Her chest almost brushes his. He can feel her breath on his skin. It would be easy to lean in, cup her face in his hands and feel her lips against his. He wants it. He wants her. 

_Get a fucking grip._

Backing away, he leaves her in the corner and feigns interest in the contents of an open box filled with miscellaneous junk. 

"I thought I was your friend." To him, he sounds petulant. Maybe he is, but it has the desired effect. 

"You are! Of course, you are,” she says in a rush, fingers at her throat as she pulls on the chain of her necklace. She’s worried. Good. "I just don't… I don't like dumping my problems on you, that's all." 

"You're not." 

Well, technically she is, but he’s asking for it. But why does he care in the first place? He doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else, why is this so important? He can’t call it entertainment anymore. Can’t say it’s morbid curiosity. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how he’s gotten in so deep. It’s confusing. Unthinking, his hand wraps around the handle of his knife. 

Distantly, he hears her take a deep breath and release it in a shaky exhale. "Have you heard of Felice Viti before?" 

He certainly fucked up again; he shouldn’t have come over tonight. 

Forcing a nod, he hopes his expression is blank. What is it with that fucker coming up today? It’s like Jack can’t get away from him. Everyone knows who Viti is in this neighbourhood. Drugs, prostitution, gambling, clubs—he runs the entire area for Carmine Falcone on the East Side. And that's who he works for. He isn't sure how he'd explain it if she knew. How many lies would she believe if they came from him?

"My dad owes him money, so he's working for him now. Paying off his debt."

His mind’s moving too slow. He looks from the boxes to Lena in confusion. "Then why are you—" 

"It's safer at my auntie's, even if it's smaller. She wants me to live closer." 

"Oh." The pieces click in place. Anger burns his throat like bile, but no— _no._ He has a plan, and Lena’s good ol’ dad has managed to make it easier. _Much_ easier. "And this is good, right? Moving in with your aunt?" 

Something eases in his chest when she nods. "Yeah, of course. She's strict but she's kind. Things will be… They might be better." 

Her choice of words doesn't escape him. He hopes for Lena's sake that her aunt isn't another source of pain for her. He wonders if she'll stick up for Lena or enable her father like his mother did for his. 

"I didn't want to tell you because you'd worry." 

He chuckles. "Do I look like a worrier to you?" 

Smiling with relief, she laughs. He might be good at reading her, but he's grateful the same can't be said for Lena. It's easier that way. For all his hatred for masks, he takes a sick joy slipping on his own, no matter how ill-fitting. 

"No, I guess not." 

He watches her for a while, leaning against the wall as she packs another box and tapes it closed, but she doesn't notice when he slips into the hall. The frames that took up almost the entirety of the walls are gone. It doesn't smell like Lena out here. All that's left is the pungent smell of bleach intertwined with tobacco. Some of the furniture is gone, but the couch and TV are still in place. Kitchen cupboards hang half-open, their shelves empty. It's colder where Lena isn't. Or maybe that's in his head like so much else is. 

When he gets to the apartment door, he stops. He remembers how Lena cried, how he listened from the other side and did nothing. He wonders if she had to clean her own blood out of the carpet. 

"This your last night?" he asks from the hall, peering into her dad's room before stopping in the doorway of hers. "And you're spending it alone?" 

"No," she says quietly. "You're here." 

He wishes his blood didn't warm at the sound of that. He wishes he never met her at all. 

***

In the end, Jack stays at Lena's for hours. He doesn't do much to help with the packing, but she doesn't mind. They laugh and joke, and his Lena comes back—the one that tells him everything, looks at him like no one else does. He gets drunk on the smell of her, the sound of her voice. His eyes follow her around her room, taking note of the curve of her spine, the shape of her hips, the slant of her collarbones. 

_Think._ He rubs his eyes. This should be his cue to leave. His mind's following a path that won't lead anywhere good. 

"Well," he grabs his discarded hoodie and slides it on, "it's been fun, short stuff. I'll see you sometime." 

Not waiting for a reply, he pries the window open. His body tenses at the flood of frosty air. He was too used to the heat of being around Lena. 

_The cold will do me good._

He didn't see her come up beside him. He barely resists the urge to push her away. 

"You don't have to leave."

He shouldn't be considering this. He really shouldn't. It was hard enough the last time they shared the room. Just as he opens his mouth, an excuse ready on the tip of his tongue, the tips of her fingers touch the back of his hand before tentatively holding it in her own. 

Teeth worrying over her bottom lip, she says, "You can stay if you want." 

When did she get so close? Why does her skin against his feel so good? 

_Fucking hell. What harm could staying do?_

He pretends he doesn't know the answer to that. 

Sliding the window closed, he towers over her. If he looks hard enough, he can almost see her pulse jumping at her throat. "Tsk, tsk, shortie. How bold of you." He wags a finger, his mouth twisting into a smirk. 

"No! I didn't mean it like that!" 

As if realizing how close he is, Lena tries to back away. Jack follows, letting his voice rumble deep in his chest, almost a purr. "Sure you didn't.” He makes a point to look her up and down, one brow raised as his smirk widens. The room is small, there isn’t much space to maneuver. Her back hits the stack of boxes, and her eyes widen. It’s not in fear, though. It’s like when they were at the warehouse together, when he could see her pupils dilate, her breathing quicken. “Got somethin' you wanna confess?" 

He laughs when she freezes, mouth open but struggling to speak. 

"You—you're such a jerk!" She smacks his chest, but there’s no force behind it. 

"You're too easy.” He laughs harder at her embarrassment, how simple it is to get a rise out of her. She frowns as she crosses her arms and turns away from him. He’s got her stuck between the boxes and a corner, but he doesn’t feel like stopping yet. 

"Oh, c'mon. Don't pout." 

Wrapping a loose, black curl around his finger, he gives it a small tug. She swats his hand away, but she can never stay mad at him long. It’s one of her qualities that he likes best. 

She glares before that, too, softens. She sighs. "Rose and I have sleepovers all the time, so I thought it might be… I don't know, fun to have one where I'm not a complete mess?" 

He has a very different idea of what _fun_ means at the moment. 

"Hmm." Tapping his chin, he pretends to look off in thought. A devious grin spreads across his face. "I like the sound of that." He’s playing with fire, but he likes the heat. "We sharing a bed, then?" 

Indignation colours her cheeks. "You're the worst!" 

His arms wrap around her waist when she tries to move past him, pulling her back into his chest as he laughs. Squirming, she starts laughing too when his hand slides under her sweater to find a sensitive spot on her stomach.

"You know you love me." 

They both freeze. Why the fuck did he say that. Why in Satan’s name would he think that’s a good idea. How can he keep being so fucking _dense_?

"Of course I do," she says softly after a long moment, turning so she can look him in the eyes. Pushing a few escaped locks of hair behind her ear, she shuffles her feet. 

He knows he’s still holding her too close. His hand is still under her shirt, palm against her stomach feeling the subtle rises and falls with each breath. His face is certainly red, what a weird fucking feeling that is, but he doesn't know why he's so nervous to hear her answer, why he cares so fucking much. 

"You're my friend. One of my best friends." 

There she goes with that sickening earnestness. He's not in a much better position than Tony was. She almost kissed _him_ before and this is what she says? That they’re just _friends_ ? A violent vision rattles his bones—visions of letting loose his anger, slapping her, telling her how much he fucking _hates her_ with his hands around her throat, getting hard as he watches her struggle to breathe. 

No. _No._

He blinks the thoughts away, the crushing disappointment. (But why is he disappointed?) His heart's pounding, fists clenched tight. 

"Yeah, right," he forces out. A corner of his mouth pulls into a smile, but he knows it doesn't look kind. "Friends." 

He sees it clearly now. Anything else would be bad—bad for both of them. 

Right?

***

"Jack?" 

He was convinced she had fallen asleep. They didn’t say much as they climbed into their respective beds, she on her small twin mattress and him on a makeshift bed made from couch cushions and spare blankets. He didn’t leave but he doesn’t want to look at her, either. Maybe he imagined the voice. Her breathing is even, quiet. 

“Are you awake?” 

Nope. Not his imagination. 

"Mmm." He forces his eyes open, blinks away the encroaching wave of sleep. 

She’s on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her hair is loose from the knot on her head. It spills over the mattress, close enough for him to touch. 

"What makes you happy?" 

Leave it to Lena to ask the dumbest shit at 3 AM. 

"Who fucking cares about that?" he snaps. 

"I do." 

He scoffs. "Happiness is a lie sold to you by ads. It ain't real." 

"You can't really think that." 

She shifts in bed, rolling to face him from behind her blanket. She looks younger, eyes too big and brows furrowed together. He can't stop the corner of his mouth rising in a half-smile.

"Sure I do." 

Lena rolls her eyes. "There's nothing that's made you feel… I don't know, serendipitous? Euphoric?" 

Somehow, he doesn't think 'setting a man on fire' is the right answer. He shrugs. 

"No. Not really. Life's a straight line with a few bumps. Nothing noteworthy." 

That wasn't the answer she was looking for, was it? Silence hangs thick in her room. The walls swell with it. The towers of boxes create long shadows that cut through the dim moonlight. His mind drifts. He thinks of her skin, the lines on her back, how sweet she'd taste. 

"Well… I learned the piano, once. Just a little bit. Wasn't very good." 

Jack wants to take the words back as soon as they're out of his mouth. He's never been one to fill a long silence, and he's angry; he doesn't want to say anything else. But she has a way of dragging things out of him all the same. 

"I can't imagine you not being good at something." He can hear her smiling, teasing him. Her voice is barely above a whisper, soft and gentle. He wishes she was closer. 

"I am pretty great, aren't I?" He chuckles. "It was nice. For a while. Happiness doesn't come so easy for most folks. Not a problem you have." 

"That's not true. It's more…" 

Her voice falters, fingers worrying over the frayed hem of her blanket. She gets like this when she knows he won't agree with her, all quiet and meek. It's infuriating; he wants her to grow a spine—say what she means. It's like she knows how to disarm him, make him listen when he doesn't want to. 

"Sometimes happiness is something you choose, something you make. There's always a reason to be angry, upset. But there's… I don't know, I guess a sense of—of freedom in choosing to be happy, in choosing to cherish those moments when they come. Wherever we can find them." 

_Bunch of sentimental bullshit._

"If only it worked that way, shortie." 

He rolls onto his side, facing the door. He's given up understanding what goes through her head, and he's too tired to turn her logic around. Maybe he shouldn't have bothered coming over. 

"You make me happy," she whispers. 

Jack's heart stops. Surely he didn't hear her right. His chest tightens, his hands form into fists. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? 

He can't summon an answer even when her hand slips through her blanket to hold his. Her fingers are soft, her palm warm. Jack freezes. It's a foreign feeling. He doesn't know if he wants to run away or pull her closer. It's hard to breathe, think. 

“Jack?” Her voice drips with sleep, eyes closed and her blanket tucked close. 

He's glad she isn't looking at him. He doesn't know how to make his eyes stop stinging. 

“Yeah?” he answers, clearing his throat. 

For a moment, he thinks she's fallen asleep. Her chest rises and falls softly, hair spilled around her head in an inky halo. It's a punch to the stomach when he realizes that he thinks she's beautiful. 

“Do you ever feel sad?” 

She's half-asleep, she likely won't remember what he says. It might feel good, telling the truth. Just once, here where there's no one to hold it against him. 

“I don’t know what to call it,” he says, quiet as he thinks. 

He doesn't know if there are words to describe the aching cavern in his chest, the hollow where his heart is meant to be. He doesn't know how to say that sometimes he's thought he might crack open and everything will spill out of him and he'll die where no one can see. He'll sink into the earth and it would be like he never existed at all. 

“I feel… empty.” 

It feels true. This might be the most honest he's been with her about anything. It's almost nice.

“I feel empty.” 

Maybe this is what sadness is, a void no one can fill, an absence of feeling. Jack wishes he could tell the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers! First of all, I'm so sorry that I basically disappeared. I was... not doing well. But thanks to my amazing support network and my doctors, I'm stable and finally starting to feel like myself again. For a while, I was becoming convinced I'd never be able to write again, and I want to thank you guys for your encouragement and for not giving up on me. 💖 I know this chapter is much shorter than those that I've published before, but I'm trying to slowly ease myself back into a writing groove. To be honest, I'm really nervous about this chapter because it's been so damn long since I wrote anything - it's hard for me to tell if it's up to the same standard of everything else I've written, but I just wanted to give you guys a small Valentine's gift. 
> 
> Updates will be slow, but I'm here to stay. I'm sending you guys all my love! 🥺💖


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